J- 

I  f\> 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

William  Nauns  Ricks 


FIDELITY 


Copyright, 
BY  SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 
(INCORPORATED) 


GIFT 


^printers 
)3.  J.  PARKHILL  &  Co.,  BOSTON  U.S.A. 


TO 

LUCY   HUFFAKER 


610 


FIDELITY 


CHAPTER  ONE 

It  was  hard  to  get  back  into  the  easy  current 
of  everyday  talk.  Cora  Albright's  question  had 
too  rudely  pulled  them  out  of  it,  disturbing  the 
quiet  flow  of  inconsequential  things.  Even  when 
they  had  recovered  and  were  safely  flowing  along 
on  the  fact  that  the  new  hotel  was  to  cost  two  hun 
dred  thousand  dollars,  after  they  had  moved  with 
apparent  serenity  to  lamentation  over  a  neighbor 
who  was  sick  in  bed  and  without  a  cook,  it  was 
as  if  they  were  making  a  display  of  the  ease  with 
which  they  could  move  on  those  commonplace 
things,  as  if  thus  to  deny  the  consciousness  of 
whirlpools  near  by. 

So  they  seemed  to  Dr.  Deane  Franklin,  who, 
secured  by  the  shadow  of  the  porch  vine,  could 
smile  to  himself  at  the  way  he  saw  through  them. 
Though  Deane  Franklin's  smile  for  seeing  through 
people  was  not  so  much  a  smile  as  a  queer  little 
twist  of  the  left  side  of  his  face,  a  screwing  up  of 
it  that  half  shut  one  eye  and  pulled  his  mouth  out 
of  shape,  the  same  twist  that  used  to  make  people 

call  him  a  homely  youngster.    He  was  thinking 

i 


2  FIDELITY 

that  Cora's  question,  or  at  any  rate  her  manner  in 
asking  it,  would  itself  have  told  that  she  had  lived 
away  from  Freeport  for  a  number  of  years.  She 
did  not  know  that  they  did  not  talk  about  Euth 
Holland  any  more,  that  certainly  they  did  not 
speak  of  her  in  the  tone  of  everyday  things. 

And  yet,  looking  at  it  in  any  but  the  Free- 
port  way,  it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world  that  Cora  should  have  asked  what  she  did. 
Mrs.  Lawrence  had  asked  if  Mr.  Holland — he  was 
Buth's  father — was  getting  any  better,  and  then 
Cora  had  turned  to  him  with  the  inquiry:  "Do 
you  ever  hear  from  Euth  ? ' ' 

It  was  queer  how  it  arrested  them  all.  He  saw 
Mrs.  Lawrence's  start  and  her  quick  look  over 
to  her  daughter — now  Edith  Lawrence  Blair,  the 
Edith  Lawrence  who  had  been  Euth's  dearest 
friend.  It  was  Edith  herself  who  had  most  inter 
ested  him.  She  had  been  leaning  to  the  far  side 
of  her  big  chair  in  order  to  escape  the  shaft  of 
light  from  the  porch  lamp.  But  at  Cora's  ques 
tion  she  made  a  quick  turn  that  brought  her  di 
rectly  into  the  light.  It  gave  her  startled  face,  so 
suddenly  and  sharply  revealed,  an  unmasked  as 
pect  as  she  turned  from  Cora  to  him.  And  when 
he  quietly  answered:  "Yes,  I  had  a  letter  from 
Euth  this  morning,"  her  look  of  amazement,  of 
sudden  feeling,  seemed  for  the  instant  caught 
there  in  the  light.  He  got  her  quick  look  over  to 
'A -my — his  bride,  and  then  her  conscious  leaning 


FIDELITY  3 

back  from  the  disclosing  shaft  into  the  shadow. 

He  himself  had  become  suddenly  conscious  of 
Amy.  They  had  been  in  California  for  their 
honeymoon,  and  had  just  returned  to  Freeport. 
Amy  was  not  a  Freeport  girl,  and  was  new  to  his 
old  crowd,  which  the  visit  of  Cora  Albright  was 
bringing  together  in  various  little  reunions.  She 
had  been  sitting  over  at  the  far  side  of  the  group, 
talking  with  Will  Blair,  Edith's  husband.  Now 
they  too  had  stopped  talking. 

"She  wanted  to  know  about  her  father/'  he 
added. 

No  one  said  anything.  That  irritated  him.  It 
seemed  that  Edith  or  her  mother,  now  that  Cora 
had  opened  it  up,  might  make  some  little  attempt 
at  the  common  decencies  of  such  a  situation, 
might  ask  if  Euth  would  come  home  if  her  father 
died,  speak  of  her  as  if  she  were  a  human  being. 

Cora  did  not  appear  to  get  from  their  silence 
that  she  was  violating  Freeport  custom.  "Her 
mother  died  just  about  a  year  after  Euth — left, 
didn't  she?"  she  pursued. 

" About  that,"  he  tersely  answered. 

"Died  of  a  broken  heart,"  murmured  Mrs.  Law 
rence. 

* '  She  died  of  pneumonia, ' '  was  his  retort,  a  little 
sharp  for  a  young  man  to  an  older  woman. 

Her  slight  wordless  murmur  seemed  to  comment 
on  his  failure  to  see.  She  turned  to  Cora  with  a 
tolerant,  gently-spoken, ' '  I  think  Deane  would  have 


4  FIDELITY 

to  admit  that  there  was  little  force  left  for  fighting 
pneumonia.  Certainly  it  was  a  broken  life!" — 
that  last  was  less  gently  said. 

Exasperation  showed  in  his  shifting  of  position. 

"It  needn't  have  been,"  he  muttered  stubbornly. 

"Deane — Deane!"  she  murmured,  as  if  in  re 
proach  for  something  of  long  standing.  There 
was  a  silence  in  which  the  whole  thing  was  alive 
there  for  those  of  them  who  knew.  Cora  and 
Edith,  sitting  close  together,  did  not  turn  to  one 
another.  He  wondered  if  they  were  thinking  of 
the  countless  times  Euth  had  been  on  that  porch 
with  them  in  the  years  they  were  all  growing  up 
together.  Edith's  face  was  turned  away  from  the 
light  now.  Suddenly  Cora  demanded:  "Well, 
there's  no  prospect  at  all  of  a  divorce?" 

Mrs.  Lawrence  rose  and  went  over  to  Amy  and 
opened  a  lively  conversation  as  to  whether  she 
found  her  new  maid  satisfactory.  It  left  him  and 
Edith  and  Cora  to  themselves. 

"No,"  he  answered  her  question,  "I  guess  not. 
Not  that  I  know  of." 

"How  terrible  it  all  is!"  Cora  exclaimed,  not 
without  feeling;  and  then,  following  a  pause,  she 
and  Edith  were  speaking  of  how  unbecoming  the 
new  hats  were,  talking  of  the  tea  one  of  their  old 
friends  was  giving  for  Cora  next  day. 

He  sat  there  thinking  how  it  was  usually  those 
little  things  that  closed  in  over  Euth.  When  the 
thought  of  her,  feeling  about  her,  broke  through, 


FIDELITY  5 

it  was  soon  covered  over  with — oh,  discussion  of 
how  some  one  was  wearing  her  hair,  the  health  of 
some  one's  baby  or  merits  of  some  one's  cook. 

He  listened  to  their  talk  about  the  changes  there 
had  been  in  Freeport  in  the  last  ten  or  twelve 
years.  They  spoke  of  deaths,  of  marriages,  of 
births;  of  people  who  had  prospered  and  people 
who  had  gone  to  pieces ;  of  the  growth  of  the  town, 
of  new  people,  of  people  who  had  moved  away. 
In  a  word,  they  spoke  of  change.  Edith  would 
refer  things  to  him  and  he  occasionally  joined  in 
the  talk,  but  he  was  thinking  less  of  the  incidents 
they  spoke  of  than  of  how  it  was  change  they  were 
talking  about.  This  enumeration  of  changes  gave 
him  a  sense  of  life  as  a  continuous  moving  on,  as  a 
thing  going  swiftly  by.  Life  had  changed  for  all 
those  people  they  were  telling  Cora  about.  It  had 
changed  for  themselves  too.  He  had  continued  to 
think  of  Edith  and  the  others  as  girls.  But  they 
had  moved  on  from  that ;  they  were  moving  on  all 
the  time.  Why,  they  were  over  thirty!  As  a 
matter  of  fact  they  were  women  near  the  middle 
thirties.  People  talked  so  lightly  of  change,  and 
yet  change  meant  that  life  was  swiftly  sweeping 
one  on. 

He  turned  from  that  too  somber  thinking  to 
Amy,  watched  her  as  she  talked  with  Mrs.  Law 
rence.  They  too  were  talking  of  Freeport  people 
and  affairs,  the  older  woman  bringing  Amy  into 
the  current  of  life  there.  His  heart  warmed  a 


6  FIDELITY 

little  to  Edith's  mother  for  being  so  gracious  to 
Amy,  though  that  did  not  keep  him  from  marvel 
ing  at  how  she  could  be  both  so  warm  and  so  hard 
— so  loving  within  the  circle  of  her  approval,  so 
unrelenting  out  beyond  it. 

Amy  would  make  friends,  he  was  thinking,  lov 
ingly  proud.  How  could  it  be  otherwise  when  she 
was  so  lovely  and  so  charming?  She  looked  so 
slim,  so  very  young,  in  that  white  dress  she  was 
wearing.  Well,  and  she  was  young,  little  older 
now  than  these  girls  had  been  when  they  really 
were  "the  girls. "  That  bleak  sense  of  life  as  go 
ing  by  fell  away ;  here  was  life — the  beautiful  life 
he  was  to  have  with  Amy.  He  watched  the  breeze 
play  with  her  hair  and  his  whole  heart  warmed  to 
her  in  the  thought  of  the  happiness  she  brought 
him,  in  his  gratitude  for  what  love  made  of  life. 
He  forgot  his  resentment  about  Euth,  forgot  the 
old  bitterness  and  old  hurt  that  had  just  been 
newly  stirred  in  him.  Life  had  been  a  lonely  thing 
for  a  number  of  years  after  Euth  went  away.  He 
had  Amy  now — all  was  to  be  different. 

They  all  stood  at  the  head  of  the  steps  for  a 
moment  as  he  and  Amy  were  bidding  the  others 
good-night.  They  talked  of  the  tea  Edith  was  to 
give  for  Amy  the  following  week — what  Amy 
would  wear — how  many  people  there  would  be. 
"And  let  me  pick  you  up  and  take  you  to  the  tea 
to-morrow, "  Edith  was  saying.  "It  will  be  small 
and  informal — just  Cora's  old  friends — and  then 


FIDELITY  7 

you  won't  have  so  many  strangers  to  meet  next 
week." 

He  glowed  with  new  liking  of  Edith,  felt  anew 
that  sweetness  in  her  nature  that,  after  her  turn 
ing  from  Ruth,  had  not  been  there  for  him.  Look 
ing  at  her  through  this  new  friendliness  he 
was  thinking  how  beautifully  she  had  developed, 
Edith  was  a  mother  now,  she  had  two  lovely  chil 
dren.  She  was  larger  than  in  her  girlhood;  she 
had  indeed  flowered,  ripened.  Edith  was  a  sweet 
woman,  he  was  thinking. 

"I  do  think  they're  the  kindest,  most  beautiful 
people!"  Amy  exclaimed  warmly  as  they  started 
slowly  homeward  through  the  fragrant  softness 
of  the  May  night. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

He  had  known  that  Amy  would  ask,  and  won 
dered  a  little  at  her  waiting  so  long.  It  was  an 
hour  later,  as  she  sat  before  her  dressing-table 
brushing  her  hair  that  she  turned  to  him  with  a 
little  laugh  and  asked:  "Who  is  this  mysterious 
Ruth?" 

He  sighed ;  he  was  tired  and  telling  about  Ruth 
seemed  a  large  undertaking. 

Amy  colored  and  turned  from  him  and  picked 
up  her  brush.  "Don't  tell  me  if  you  don't  want 
to,"  she  said  formally.  . 

His  hand  went  round  her  bared  shoulder. 
"Dearest!  Why,  I  want  to,  of  course.  It's 
just  that  it's  a  long  story,  and  tonight  I'm  a  little 
tired. ' '  As  she  did  not  respond  to  that  he  added : 
"This  was  a  hard  day  at  the  office." 

Amy  went  on  brushing  her  hair;  she  did  not 
suggest  that  he  let  it  go  until  another  time  so  he 
began,  "Ruth  was  a  girl  who  used  to  live  here." 

"I  gathered  that,"  she  replied  quietly. 

Her  tone  made  no  opening  for  him.  "I  thought 
a  great  deal  of  her,"  he  said  after  a  moment. 

"Yes,  I  gathered  that  too."  She  said  it  dryly, 
and  smiled  just  a  little.  He  was  more  conscious 
than  ever  of  being  tired,  of  its  being  hard  to  tell 
about  Ruth. 

8 


FIDELITY  9 

"I  gathered,"  said  Amy,  still  faintly  smiling, 
though  her  voice  went  a  trifle  higher,  "that  you 
thought  more  of  her — "  she  hesitated,  then 
amended — "  think  more  of  her — than  the  rest  of 
them  do." 

He  answered  simply :  '  '  Yes,  I  believe  that 's  so. 
Though  Edith  used  to  care  a  great  deal  for  Euth," 
he  added  meditatively. 

"Well,  what  did  she  do?"  Amy  demanded  im 
patiently.  "What  is  it!" 

For  a  moment  his  cheek  went  down  to  her  soft 
hair  that  was  all  around  her,  in  a  surge  of  love  for 
its  softness,  a  swift,  deep  gratitude  for  her  love 
liness.  He  wanted  to  rest  there,  letting  that,  for 
the  time,  shut  out  all  else,  secure  in  new  happiness 
and  forgetting  old  hurts. 

But  he  felt  her  waiting  for  what  she  wanted  to 
know  and  so  with  an  effort  he  began :  "Why,  you 
see,  dear,  Euth — it  was  pretty  tough  for  Kuth. 
Things  didn't  go  right  for  her — not  as  they  did  for 
Cora  and  Edith  and  the  girls  of  her  crowd. 
She — "  Something  in  the  calm  of  Amy's  waiting 
made  it  curiously  hard  to  say,  "Euth  couldn't 
marry  the  man  she  cared  for. ' ' 

"Why  not?"  she  asked  dispassionately. 

"Why,  because  it  wasn't  possible,"  he  an 
swered  a  little  sharply.  "She  couldn't  marry 
him  because  he  wasn't  divorced,"  he  said  bluntly 
then. 

Amy's  deep  gray  eyes,  they  had  seemed  so  un- 


10  FIDELITY 

perturbed,  so  unsympathetically  calm,  were  upon 
him  now  in  a  queer,  steady  way.  He  felt  himself 
flushing.  "Wasn't  divorced ?"  she  said  with  a 
little  laugh.  "Is  that  a  way  of  saying  he  was 
married?" 

He  nodded. 

"She  cared  for  a  man  who  was  married  to 
someone  else?"  she  asked  with  rising  voice. 

Again  he  only  nodded,  feeling  incapable,  when 
Amy  looked  at  him  like  that,  of  saying  the  things 
he  would  like  to  be  saying  for  Euth. 

Abruptly  she  drew  her  hair  away.  "And  you 
can  sympathize  with — like — a  person  who  would 
do  that?" 

"I  certainly  both  sympathize  with  and  like 
Euth." 

That  had  come  quick  and  sharp,  and  then  sud 
denly  he  felt  it  all  wrong  that  a  thing  which  had 
gone  so  deep  into  his  own  life  should  be  coming  to 
Amy  like  this,  that  she  should  be  taking  the  atti 
tude  of  the  town  against  his  friend,  against  his 
own  feeling.  He  blamed  his  way  of  putting  it, 
telling  himself  it  was  absurd  to  expect  her  to  un 
derstand  a  bald  statement  like  that.  At  that  mo 
ment  he  realized  it  was  very  important  she  should 
understand ;  not  only  Euth,  but  something  in  him 
self — something  counting  for  much  in  himself 
would  be  shut  out  if  she  did  not  understand. 

It  made  his  voice  gentle  as  he  began:  "Amy, 
don't  you  know  that  just  to  be  told  of  a  thing  may 


FIDELITY  11 

make  it  seem  very  different  from  what  the  thing 
really  was?  Seeing  a  thing  from  the  outside  is 
so  different  from  living  through  it.  Won't  you 
reserve  judgment  about  Ruth — she  is  my  friend 
and  I  hate  to  see  her  unfairly  judged — until  some 
time  when  I  can  tell  it  better?" 

"Why  have  you  so  much  to  do  with  it?  Why 
is  it  so  important  I  do  not — judge  her?"  Amy's 
sweetness,  that  soft  quality  that  had  been  dear 
to  him  seemed  to  have  tightened  into  a  hard 
shrewdness  as  she  asked :  ' '  How  did  you  happen 
to  know  it  all  from  within?" 

He  pushed  his  chair  back  from  her  and  settled 
into  it  wearily.  "Why,  because  she  was  my 
friend,  dear.  I  was  in  her  confidence." 

"I  don't  think  I'd  be  very  proud  of  being  in 
the  confidence  of  a  woman  who  ran  away  with 
another  woman's  husband!" 

Her  hostile  voice  fanned  the  old  anger  that  had 
so  many  times  flamed  when  people  were  speak 
ing  hostilely  of  Ruth.  But  he  managed  to  say 
quietly:  "But  you  see  you  don't  know  much 
about  it  yet,  Amy." 

He  was  facing  her  mirror  and  what  he  saw  in 
it  made  him  lean  forward,  his  arms  about  her, 
with  an  impulsive :  ' '  Sweetheart,  we  're  not  going 
to  quarrel,  are  we  ? " 

But  after  his  kisses  she  asked,  as  if  she  had 
only  been  biding  her  time  through  the  interrup 
tion:  "Did  she  run  away  with  him?" 


12  FIDELITY 

His  arm  dropped  from  her  shoulder.  "They 
left  together,"  he  answered  shortly. 

"Are  they  married  now?" 

"No." 

Amy,  who  had  resumed  the  brushing  of  her 
hair,  held  the  brush  suspended.  "Living  together 
— all  this  time — and  not  married?" 

"They  are  not  married,"  was  his  heated  re 
sponse,  "because  the  man's  wife  has  not  divorced 
him. ' '  He  added,  not  without  satisfaction :  ' '  She 's 
that  kind  of  a  person." 

Amy  turned  and  her  eyes  met  his.  "What 
kind  of  a  person?"  she  said  challengingly.  "I 
presume,"  she  added  coolly,  "that  she  does  not 
believe  in  divorce." 

"I  take  it  that  she  does  not,"  was  his  dry  an 
swer. 

She  flushed,  and  exclaimed  a  little  tremulously : 
"Well,  really,  Deane,  you  needn't  be  so  disa 
greeable  about  it!" 

Quickly  he  turned  to  her,  glad  to  think  that 
he  had  been  disagreeable ;  that  was  so  much  easier 
than  what  he  had  been  trying  to  keep  from  think 
ing. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  disagreeable,  Amy  dear. 
I  suppose  I've  got  in  the  habit  of  being  disa 
greeable  about  Euth:  people  here  have  been  so 
hard  about  her;  I've  resented  their  attitude  so." 

"But  why  should  you  care?  Why  is  it  such 
a  personal  matter  to  you?" 


FIDELITY  13 

He  was  about  to  say,  "She  was  my  friend," 
but  remembering  he  had  said  that  before,  he  had 
anew  a  sense  of  helplessness.  He  did  not  want 
to  talk  about  it  any  more.  He  had  become  tired 
out  with  thinking  about  it,  with  the  long  grieving 
for  Euth  and  the  sorrowing  with  her.  When  he 
found  Amy  their  love  had  seemed  to  free  him  from 
old  hurts  and  to  bring  him  out  from  loneliness. 
Wonderful  as  the  ecstasy  of  fresh  love  was  he 
had  thought  even  more  of  the  exquisite  peace 
that  rests  in  love.  Amy  had  seemed  to  be  bring 
ing  him  to  that;  and  now  it  seemed  that  Euth 
was  still  there  holding  him  away  from  it.  The 
thought  brushed  his  mind,  his  face  softening  for 
the  instant  with  it,  that  Euth  would  be  so  sorry 
to  have  that  true. 

Amy  had  braided  her  hair;  the  long  fair  braid 
hung  over  her  shoulder,  beautifully  framing  her 
face  as  she  turned  to  him.  "Had  you  supposed, 
when  you  all  knew  her,  when  she  was  in  your 
crowd,  that  she  was — that  kind  of  a  per  son  f" 

His  blood  quickened  in  the  old  anger  for  Euth ; 
but  there  was  something  worse  than  that — a  sick 
feeling,  a  feeling  in  which  there  was  disappoint 
ment  and  into  which  there  crept  something  that 
was  like  shame. 

The  telephone  rang  before  he  need  reply.  When 
he  turned  from  it,  it  was  to  say  hurriedly,  "I'll 
have  to  go  to  the  hospital,  Amy.  Sorry — that 
woman  I  operated  on  yesterday — "  He  was  in 


14  FIDELITY 

the  next  room,  gathering  together  his  things  be 
fore  he  had  finished  it. 

Amy  followed  him  in.  "Why,  I'm  so  sorry, 
dear.  It's  too  bad — when  you're  so  tired." 

He  turned  and  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  held 
her  there  close  in  a  passion  of  relief  at  the  gentle 
ness  and  love  of  her  voice  that  swept  away  those 
things  about  her  he  had  tried  to  think  were  not 
in  his  mind.  Amy  was  so  sweet! — so  beautiful, 
so  tender.  Why  of  course  she  wouldn't  under 
stand  about  Euth!  How  absurd  to  expect  her  to 
understand,  he  thought,  when  he  had  blurted 
things  out  like  that,  giving  her  no  satisfaction 
about  it.  He  was  touchy  on  the  subject,  he 
gladly  told  himself,  as  he  held  her  close  in  all  the 
thankfulness  of  regaining  her.  And  when,  after 
he  had  kissed  her  good-by  she  lifted  her  face  and 
kissed  him  again  his  rush  of  love  for  her  had 
power  to  sweep  all  else  away. 


CHAPTER  THEEE 

It  was  in  that  mood  of  passionate  tender 
for  Amy,  a  glow  of  gratitude  for  love,  that  he 
sent  his  car  swiftly  toward  the  hospital  His  feel 
ing  diffused  warmth  for  the  town  through  which 
he  drove,  the  little  city  that  had  so  many  times 
tightened  him  up  in  bitterness.  People  were  kind, 
after  all;  how  kind  they  were  being  to  Amy,  he 
thought,  eager  to  receive  her  and  make  her  feel 
at  home,  anxious  that  she  be  happy  among  them. 
The  picture  of  Edith  as  she  stood  at  the  head  of 
the  steps  making  plans  for  Amy  warmed  his  heart 
to  her.  Perhaps  he  had  been  unfair  to  Edith; 
in  that  one  thing,  certainly,  she  had  failed  as  a 
friend,  but  perhaps  it  was  impossible  for  women 
to  go  that  far  in  friendship,  impossible  for  them 
to  be  themselves  on  the  outer  side  of  the  door 
of  their  approval.  Even  Amy.  .  .  .  That  showed, 
of  course,  how  hard  it  was  for  women  whose  ex 
periences  had  all  fallen  within  the  circle  of  things 
as  they  should  be  to  understand  a  thing  that  was 
— disrupting.  It  was  as  if  their  kindly  impulses, 
sympathy,  tenderness,  were  circumscribed  by  that 
circle.  Little  as  he  liked  that,  his  own  mood  of 
the  moment,  his  unrecognized  efforts  at  holding 
it,  kept  him  within  that  sphere  where  good  feeling 

15 


16  FIDELITY 

lived.  In  it  were  happy  anticipations  of  the  life 
he  and  Amy  would  have  in  Freeport.  He  had 
long  been  out  of  humor  with  his  town,  scornful. 
He  told  himself  now  that  that  was  a  wrong  atti 
tude.  There  was  a  new  feeling  for  the  homes  he 
was  passing,  for  the  people  in  those  homes.  He 
had  a  home  there,  too;  it  seemed  to  make  him 
one  with  all  those  people.  There  was  warmth  in 
that  feeling  of  being  one  with  others. 

He  told  himself  that  it  was  absurd  to  expect 
Amy  to  adjust  herself  all  in  a  minute  to  a  thing 
he  had  known  about  for  years,  had  all  the  time 
known  from  within.  He  would  make  Amy  under 
stand;  if  Euth  came,  Amy  would  be  good  to  her. 
At  heart  she  was  not  like  those  others,  and  happi 
ness  would  make  her  want  to  be  kind. 

He  saw  her  face  lifted  for  that  second  good- 
by  kiss — and  quickened  his  speed.  He  hoped  he 
would  not  have  to  be  long  at  the  hospital,  hoped 
Amy  would  not  be  asleep  when  he  got  back  home. 
He  lingered  happily  around  the  thought  of  there 
being  a  home  to  go  back  to,  of  how  Amy  would 
be  there  when  he  got  back. 

But  it  was  at  a  slower  speed  that,  an  hour  later, 
he  traveled  those  same  streets.  He  had  lost  his 
patient.  It  was  no  failure  of  the  operator,  but 
one  of  those  cases  where  the  particular  human 
body  is  not  equal  to  the  demand  made  upon  it, 
where  there  was  no  reaction.  He  got  no  satisfac 
tion  in  telling  himself  that  the  woman  could  not 


FIDELITY  17 

have  lived  long  without  the  operation ;  she  had  not 
lived  with  it — that  was  the  only  side  it  turned  to 
him.  The  surgery  was  all  right  enough,  but  life 
had  ebbed  away.  It  brought  a  sense  of  who  was 
master. 

He  had  been  practising  for  twelve  years,  but 
death  always  cut  deep  into  his  spirit.  It  was 
more  than  chagrin,  more  than  the  disheartenment 
of  the  workman  at  failure,  when  he  lost  a  patient. 
It  was  a  real  sense  of  death,  and  with  that  a  feel 
ing  of  man's  final  powerlessness. 

That  made  it  a  different  town  through  which  he 
drove  upon  his  return;  a  town  where  people  cut 
their  way  ruthlessly  through  life — and  to  what 
end?  They  might  be  a  little  kinder  to  each  other 
along  the  way,  it  would  seem,  when  this  was  what 
it  came  to  for  them  all.  They  were  kind  enough 
about  death — not  so  kind  about  the  mean  twists 
in  life. 

That  feeling  was  all  wrapped  up  with  Buth 
Holland;  it  brought  Euth  to  him.  He  thought 
of  the  many  times  they  had  traveled  that  road 
together,  times  when  he  would  take  her  where  she 
could  meet  Stuart  Williams,  then  pick  her  up 
again  and  bring  her  home,  her  family  thinking 
she  had  been  with  him.  How  would  he  ever  make 
Amy  understand  about  that?  It  seemed  now  that 
it  could  not  be  done,  that  it  would  be  something 
they  did  not  share,  perhaps  something  lying  hos- 
tilely  between  them.  He  wondered  why  it  had 


18  FIDELITY 

not  seemed  to  him  the  shameful  thing  it  would 
appear  to  anyone  he  told  of  it.  Was  that  some 
thing  twisted  in  him,  or  was  it  just  that  utter 
difference  between  knowing  things  from  within 
and  judging  from  without!  To  himself,  it  was 
never  in  the  form  of  argument  he  defended  Euth. 
It  was  the  memory  of  her  face  at  those  times  when 
he  had  seen  what  she  was  feeling. 

He  was  about  to  pass  the  Hollands' — her  old 
home.  He  slackened  the  car  to  its  slowest.  It 
had  seemed  a  gloomy  place  in  recent  years.  The 
big  square  house  in  the  middle  of  the  big  yard  of 
oak  trees  used  to  be  one  of  the  most  friendly- 
looking  places  o«f  the  town.  But  after  Euth  went 
away  and  the  family  drew  within  themselves,  as 
they  did,  the  hospitable  spaciousness  seemed  to 
become  bleakness,  as  if  the-  place  itself  changed 
with  the  change  of  spirit.  People  began  to  speak 
of  it  as  gloomy ;  now  they  said  it  looked  forsaken. 
Certainly  it  was  in  need  of  painting — new  side 
walks,  general  repairs.  Mr.  Holland  had  seemed 
to  cease  caring  how  the  place  looked.  There 
weren't  flowers  any  more. 

In  the  upper  hall  he  saw  the  dim  light  that 
burns  through  the  night  in  a  house  of  sickness. 
He  had  been  there  early  in  the  evening;  if  he 
thought  the  nurse  was  up  he  would  like  to  stop 
again.  But  he  considered  that  it  must  be  almost 
one — too  late  for  disturbing  them.  He  hoped  Mr. 
Holland  was  having  a  good  night;  he  would 


FIDELITY  19 

not   have    many   more   nights    to    get    through. 

He  wished  there  was  some  one  of  them  to  whom 
he  could  talk  about  sending  for  Euth.  They  had 
not  sent  for  her  when  her  mother  died,  but  that 
was  sudden,  everyone  was  panic-stricken.  And 
that  was  only  two  years  after  Euth's  going  away; 
time  had  not  worked  much  then  on  their  feeling 
against  her.  He  would  have  to  answer  her  letter 
and  tell  her  that  her  father  could  not  live.  He 
wanted  to  have  the  authority  to  tell  her  to  come 
home.  Anything  else  seemed  fairly  indecent  in 
its  lack  of  feeling.  Eleven  years — and  Euth  had 
never  been  home;  and  she  loved  her  father — 
though  of  course  no  one  in  the  town  would  be 
lieve  that. 

His  car  had  slowed  almost  to  a  stop ;  there  was 
a  low  whistle  from  the  porch  and  someone  was 
coming  down  the  steps.  It  was  Ted  Holland — 
Euth's  younger  brother. 

' ' Hello,  Deane,"  he  said,  coming  out  to  him; 
"thinking  of  coming  in?" 

"No,  I  guess  not;  it's  pretty  late.  I  was  just 
passing,  and  wondering  about  your  father." 

' '  He  went  to  sleep ;  seems  quiet,  and  about  the 
same. ' ' 

'  '  That 's  good ;  hope  it  will  keep  up  through  the 
night." 

The  young  fellow  did  not  reply.  The  doctor 
was  thinking  that  it  must  be  lonely  for  him — all 
alone  on  the  porch  after  midnight,  his  father  dy- 


20  FIDELITY 

ing  upstairs,  no  member  of  the  immediate  family 
in  the  house. 

"Sent  for  Cy,  Ted?"  he  asked.  Cyrus  was  the 
older  brother,  older  than  both  Ted  and  Kuth.  It 
was  he  who  had  been  most  bitter  against  Euth. 
Deane  had  always  believed  that  if  it  had  not  been 
for  Cyrus  the  rest  of  them  would  not  have  hard 
ened  into  their  pain  and  humiliation  like  that. 

Ted  nodded.  "I  had  written,  and  today,  after 
you  said  what  you  did,  I  wired.  I  had  an  answer 
tonight.  He  has  to  finish  up  a  deal  that  will  take 
him  a  few  days,  but  I  am  to  keep  him  informed — 
I  told  him  you  said  it  might  be  a  couple  of  weeks 
— and  he'll  come  the  first  minute  he  can." 

There  was  a  pause.  Deane  wanted  to  say: 
"And  Euth?"  but  that  was  a  hard  thing  to  say 
to  one  of  the  Hollands. 

But  Ted  himself  mentioned  her.  "Tell  you 
what  I'm  worrying  about,  Deane,"  he  blurted  out, 
"and  that's  Euth!" 

Deane  nodded  appreciatively.  He  had  always 
liked  this  young  Ted,  but  there  was  a  new  out 
going  to  him  for  this. 

"Father  asked  for  her  this  afternoon.  I  don't 
care  whether  he  was  just  right  in  his  mind  or 
not — it  shows  she's  on  his  mind.  *  Hasn't  Euth 
come  in  yet?'  he  asked,  several  times." 

"You  send  for  her,  Ted,"  commanded  the  doc 
tor.  "You  ought  to.  I'll  back  you  up  if  Cy's 
disagreeable. ' ' 


FIDELITY  21 

"He'll  be  disagreeable  all  right, "  muttered  the 
younger  brother. 

"Well,  what  about  Harriett  1"  impatiently  de 
manded  Deane.  "Doesn't  she  see  that  Euth 
ought  to  be  here?"  Harriett  was  Euth's  sister 
and  the  eldest  of  the  four  children. 

"Harriett  would  be  all  right,"  said  Ted,  "if 
it  weren't  for  that  bunch  of  piety  she's  married 
to!" 

Deane  laughed.  "Not  keen  for  your  brother- 
in-law,  Ted?" 

"Oh,  I'll  tell  you,  Deane,"  the  boy  burst  out, 
"for  a  long  time  I  haven't  felt  just  like  the  rest 
of  the  family  have  about  Euth.  It  was  an  awful 
thing — I  know  that,  but  just  the  same  it  was  pretty 
tough  on  Ruth.  I'll  bet  she's  been  up  against  it, 
good  and  plenty,  and  all  we've  seemed  to  think 
about  is  the  way  it  put  us  in  bad.  Not  mother 
— Cy  never  did  really  get  mother,  you  know,  but 
father  would  have  softened  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  Cy's  everlasting  keeping  him  nagged  up  to 
the  fact  that  he'd  been  wronged!  Even  Harriett 
would  have  been  human  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Cy 
— and  that  upright  husband  she 's  got ! ' ' 

The  boy's  face  was  flushed;  he  ran  his  hand 
back  through  his  hair  in  an  agitated  way;  it  was 
evident  that  his  heart  was  hot  with  feeling  about 
it  all.  1 1 1  don 't  know  whether  you  know,  Deane, ' ' 
he  said  in  a  lowered  voice,  "that  mother's  last 
words  were  for  Euth.  They  can't  deny  it,  for  I 


22  FIDELITY 

was  standing  nearest  her.    'mere's  Baft!'  she 
said;  and  then  at  the  very  last-  Euth? 

His   voice  went  unsteady  as  *j*P**.£' 
Deane,  nodding,  was  looking  straight  down 


l  "  said  Ted,  after  a  minute,  "I'm  not 
going  to  have  that  happen  again.  I've  been 
Sing  about  it.  I  did  write  Euth  a  week  ago. 
Now  I  shall  write  to  her  before  I  go  to  bed  to 
night  and  tell  her  to  come  home." 

-You  do  that,  Ted,"  said  the  doctor  with  gruff 
warmth.    "You    do    that.    I'll    write    her    too. 

Euth  wrote  to  me."  «waii»    IIP 

"Did  she?"  Ted  quickly  replied.      'Well 

hesitated  then  threw  out  in  defiant  manner  and 
"voice,  "well,  I  guess  Euth'll  find  she  sgot 
one  friend  when  she  comes  back  to  her  old  tow. 

"You  bet  she  will,"  snapped  Deane,  adding  in 
another  voice  :  '  '  She  knows  that.  '  ' 

"AM  as  for  the  family,"  Ted  went  on,  "there 
are  four  of  us,  and  I  don't  know  ^y  Euth  and 
I  aren't  half  of  that  four.  Cy  and  Harriett 
haven't  got  it  all  to  say." 

He  said  it  so  hotly  that  Deane  conciliated: 
"Try  not  to  have  any  split  up,  Ted.  That  would 
just  make  it  harder  for  Euth,  you  know.' 

"There'll  not  be  any  split  up  if  Cy  mil  just 
act  like  a  human  being,"  said  the  boy  <^ly. 
"Tell  him  your  father  was  asking  for  Euth  a 


FIDELITY  23 

that  I  told  you  you  must  send  for  her.     See  Har 
riett  first  and  get  her  in  line." 

" Harriett  would  be  all  right,"  muttered  Ted, 
"if  let  alone.  Lots  of  people  would  be  all  right 
if  other  people  didn't  keep  nagging  at  them  about 
what  they  ought  to  be." 

Deane  gave  him  a  quick,  queer  look.  "You're 
right  there,  my  son,"  he  laughed  shortly. 

There  was  a  moment's  intimate  pause.  There 
seemed  not  a  sound  on  the  whole  street  save  the 
subdued  chug-chug  of  Deane 's  waiting  machine. 
The  only  light  in  the  big  house  back  in  the 
shadowy  yard  was  the  dim  light  that  burned  be 
cause  a  man  was  dying.  Deane 's  hand  went  out 
to  his  steering  wheel.  "Well,  so  long,  Ted,"  he 
said  in  a  voice  curiously  gentle. 

"  'By,  Deane,"  said  the  boy. 

He  drove  on  through  the  silent  town  in  another 
mood.  This  boy's  feeling  had  touched  something 
in  his  heart  that  was  softening.  He  had  always 
been  attracted  to  Ted  Holland — his  frank  hazel 
eyes,  something  that  seemed  so  square  and  so 
pleasant  in  the  clear,  straight  features  of  his 
freckled  face.  He  had  been  only  a  youngster  of 
about  thirteen  when  Euth  went  away.  She  had 
adored  him;  "my  good-looking  baby  brother," 
was  her  affectionate  way  of  speaking  of  him.  He 
was  thinking  what  it  would  mean  to  Ruth  to  come 
home  and  find  this  warmth  in  Ted.  Why,  it  might 


24  FIDELITY 

make  all  the  difference  in  the  world,  he  was  grate 
fully  considering. 

When  he  came  into  the  room  where  Amy  was 
sleeping  she  awoke  and  sat  up  in  bed,  rubbing 
sleepy  eyes  blinded  by  the  light.  "Poor  dear," 
she  murmured  at  sight  of  his  face,  "so  tired  1" 

He  sat  down  on  the  bed ;  now  that  he  was  home, 
too  tired  to  move.  "Pretty  tired.  Woman 
died." 

"Oh,  Deane!"  she  cried.  "Deane,  I'm  so 
sorry. ' ' 

She  reached  over  and  put  her  arms  around  him. 
"You  couldn't  help  it,  dear,"  she  comforted. 
"You  couldn't  help  it." 

Her  sympathy  was  very  sweet  to  him;  as  said 
by  her,  the  fact  that  he  couldn't  help  it  did  make 
some  difference. 

"And  you  had  to  be  there  such  a  long  time. 
Why  it  must  be  most  morning." 

"Hardly  that.  IVe  been  at  the  Hollands '  too 
— talking  to  Ted.  Poor  kid — it's  lonesome  for 
him." 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Amy. 

"Why — "  and  then  he  remembered  "Why, 
Euth  Holland's  brother,"  he  said,  trying  not  to 
speak  consciously.  "The  father's  very  sick,  you 
know. ' ' 

"Oh,"  said  Amy.  She  moved  over  to  the  other 
side  of  her  bed. 

"They're  going  to  send  for  Euth." 


FIDELITY  25 

Amy  made  no  reply. 

He  was  too  utterly  tired  to  think  much  about 
it — too  worn  for  acute  sensibilities.  He  sat  there 
yawning.  "I  really  ought  to  write  to  Euth  my 
self  tonight,"  he  said,  sleepily  thinking  out  loud, 
"but  I'm  too  all  in."  He  wanted  her  to  take  the 
letter  off  his  conscience  for  him.  "I  think  I'd 
better  come  to  bed,  don't  you,  honey!" 

"I  should  think  you  would  need  rest,"  was  her 
answer. 

She  had  turned  the  other  way  and  seemed  to 
be  going  to  sleep  again.  Somehow  he  felt  newly 
tired  but  was  too  exhausted  to  think  it  out.  He 
told  himself  that  Amy  had  just  roused  for  the 
minute  and  was  too  sleepy  to  keep  awake.  People 
were  that  way  when  waked  out  of  a  sound  sleep. 


CHAPTER  FOUE 

The  next  evening  Dr.  Franklin  got  home  for 
dinner  before  his  wife  had  returned  from  her  tea. 
"Mrs.  Franklin  not  home  yet?"  he  asked  of  Doris, 
their  maid ;  he  still  said  Mrs.  Franklin  a  little  con 
sciously  and  liked  saying  it.  She  told  him,  rather 
fluttered  with  the  splendor  of  it — Doris  being  as 
new  to  her  profession  as  he  to  matrimony — that 
Mrs.  Blair  had  come  for  Mrs.  Franklin  in  her 
"electric"  and  they  had  gone  to  a  tea  and  had 
not  yet  returned. 

He  went  out  into  the  yard  and  busied  himself 
about  the  place  while  waiting:  trained  a  vine  on 
a  trellis,  moved  a  garden-seat;  then  he  walked 
about  the  house  surveying  it,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  happy  householder,  as  if  for  the  first  time. 
The  house  was  new;  he  had  built  it  for  them. 
From  the  first  moment  of  his  thinking  of  it  it  had 
been  designed  for  Amy.  That  made  it  much  more 
than  mere  house.  He  was  thinking  that  it  showed 
up  pretty  well  with  the  houses  of  most  of  their 
friends;  Amy  needn't  be  ashamed  of  it,  anyhow, 
and  it  would  look  better  in  a  couple  of  seasons, 
after  things  had  grown  up  around  it  a  little  more. 
There  would  be  plenty  of  seasons  for  them  to 
grow  in,  he  thought,  whistling. 

26 


FIDELITY  27 

Then  lie  got  the  gentle  sound  of  Edith's  pretty 
little  brougham  and  went  down  to  meet  them. 
She  and  Amy  looked  charming  in  there — light 
dresses  and  big  hats. 

He  made  a  gallant  remark  and  then  a  teasing 
one.  "Been  tea-tattling  all  this  time?" 

"No,"  smiled  Edith;  "we  took  a  ride." 

"Such  a  beautiful  ride,"  cried  Amy.  "Way 
up  the  river." 

He  had  helped  her  out  and  Edith  was  leaning 
out  talking  to  her.  "I  think  I'd  better  come  for 
you  about  one, ' '  she  was  saying.  He  thought  with 
loving  pride  of  how  quickly  Amy  had  swung  into 
the  life  of  the  town. 

During  dinner  he  sat  there  adoring  her:  she 
was  so  fair,  so  beautifully  formed,  so  poised.  She 
was  lovely  in  that  filmy  dress  of  cloudy  blue. 
Amy's  eyes  were  gray,  but  the  darkness  of  her 
long  lashes  gave  an  impression  of  darkness.  Her 
skin  was  smooth  and  fair  and  the  chiseling  of 
her  features  clean  and  strong.  She  held  herself 
proudly ;  her  fair  hair  was  braided  around  a  well- 
poised  head.  She  always  appeared  composed; 
there  never  seemed  any  frittering  or  disorganiz 
ing  of  herself  in  trivial  feeling  or  movement. 
One  out  of  love  with  her  might  find  her  rather 
too  self-possessed  a  young  person. 

So  engaged  was  Deane  in  admiring  her  that  it 
was  not  until  they  were  about  to  leave  the  table 
that  he  was  conscious  of  something  unusual  about 


28  FIDELITY 

her;  even  then  he  did  not  make  out  the  excitement 
just  beneath  her  collected  manner. 

He  wanted  to  show  her  what  he  had  done  to 
the  vines  and  they  went  out  in  the  yard.  Pres 
ently  they  sat  down  on  the  garden-seat  which  he 
had  moved  a  little  while  before.  He  had  grown 
puzzled  now  by  Amy's  manner. 

She  was  smoothing  out  the  sash  of  her  dress. 
She  sang  a  little  under  her  breath.  Then  she 
said,  with  apparent  carelessness:  "Mrs.  Williams 
was  at  the  tea  today." 

He  knit  his  brows.  "Mrs. — ?"  Then,  under 
standing,  his  face  tightened.  "Was  she!"  was 
his  only  reply. 

Amy  sang  a  little  more.  "It's  her  husband 
that  your  friend  is  living  with,  isn't  it?"  she 
asked,  and  the  suppressed  excitement  came  nearer 
to  the  surface  though  her  voice  remained  indif 
ferent. 

He  said  "Yes"  shortly  and  volunteered  noth 
ing.  His  face  had  not  relaxed. 

"What  a  sad  face  she  has,"  Amy  murmured. 

"Think  so?"  He  reached  over  and  picked  up 
a  twig  and  flipped  a  piece  of  it  off  his  finger. 
"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  call  it  cold  rather  than 
sad." 

"Oh,  well,  of  course,"  cried  Amy,  "your  sym 
pathies  are  all  on  the  other  side!" 

He  did  not  reply.  He  would  try  to  say  as  little 
as  possible. 


FIDELITY  29 

"I  must  say,"  she  resumed  excitedly,  then  drew 
herself  back.  "Mrs.  Blair  was  telling  me  the 
whole  story  this  afternoon, "  she  said  quietly,  but 
with  challenge. 

The  blood  came  to  his  face.  He  cleared  his 
throat  and  impatiently  threw  away  the  twig  he 
had  been  playing  with.  "Well,  Edith  didn't  lose 
much  time,  did  she?"  he  said  coldly;  then  added 
with  a  rather  hard  laugh :  "That  was  the  reason 
for  the  long  ride,  I  suppose." 

"I  don't  know  that  it  is  so  remarkable,"  Amy 
began  with  quivering  dignity,  "that  she  should 
tell  me  something  of  the  affairs  of  the  town." 
After  an  instant  she  added,  "I  am  a  stranger 
here." 

He  caught  the  different  note  and  turned  quickly 
to  her.  "Dearest,  there's  nothing  about  the 
'affairs  of  the  town'  I  won't  tell  you."  He  put 
his  arm  around  the  back  of  the  seat,  the  hand 
resting  on  her  shoulder.  "And  I  must  say  I  don't 
think  you're  much  of  a  stranger  here.  Look  at 
the  friends  you've  made  already.  I  never  saw 
anything  like  it." 

"Mrs.  Blair  does  seem  to  like  me,"  she  an 
swered  with  composure.  Then  added:  "Mrs. 
Williams  was  very  nice  to  me  too." 

His  hand  on  her  shoulder  drew  away  a  little 
and  he  snapped  his  fingers.  Then  the  hand  went 
back  to  her  shoulder.  "Well,  that's  very  nice," 
he  said  quietly. 


30  FIDELITY 

" She's  coining  to  see  me.  I'm  sure  I  found 
her  anything  but  cold  and  hard!" 

"I  don't  think  that  a  woman — "  he  began  hotly, 
but  checked  himself. 

But  all  the  feeling  that  had  been  alive  there 
just  beneath  Amy's  cool  exterior  flamed  through. 
"Well,  how  you  can  stand  up  for  a  woman  who 
did  what  that  woman  did — !" 

Her  cheeks  were  flaming  now,  her  nostrils 
quivered.  "I  guess  you're  the  only  person  in 
town  that  does  stand  up  for  her!  But  of  course 
you're  right — and  the  rest  of  them — "  She  broke 
off  with  a  tumultuous  little  laugh  and  abruptly 
got  up  and  went  into  the  house. 

He  sat  there  for  a  time  alone,  sick  at  heart. 
He  told  himself  he  had  bungled  the  whole  thing. 
Why  hadn't  he  told  Amy  all  about  Euth,  putting 
it  in  a  way  that  would  get  her  sympathies.  Surely 
he  could  have  done  that  had  he  told  her  the  story 
as  he  knew  it,  made  her  feel  what  Euth  had 
suffered,  how  tormented  and  bewildered  and  des 
perate  she  had  been.  Now  she  had  the  town's 
side  and  naturally  resented  his  championing  of 
what  was  presented  as  so  outrageous  a  thing.  He 
went  over  the  story  as  Edith  would  give  it.  That 
was  enough  to  vindicate  Amy. 

He  rose  and  followed  her  into  the  house.  She 
was  fingering  some  music  on  the  piano.  He  saw 
how  flushed  her  face  was,  how  high  she  carried! 
her  head  and  how  quick  her  breathing. 


FIDELITY  31 

He  went  and  put  his  arms  around  her.  "  Sweet 
heart,  "  he  said  very  simply  and  gently,  "I  love 
you.  You  know  that,  don't  you?" 

An  instant  she  held  back  in  conflict.  Then  she 
hid  her  face  against  him  and  sobbed.  He  held 
her  close  and  murmured  soothing  little  things. 

She  was  saying  something.  "I  was  so  happy, " 
he  made  out  the  smothered  words.  "It  was  all 
so — beautiful. ' ' 

"But  you're  happy  now,"  he  insisted.  "It's 
beautiful  now. ' ' 

i  1 1  feel  as  if  my  marriage  was  being — spoiled, ' ' 
she  choked. 

He  shook  her,  playfully,  but  his  voice  as  he 
spoke  was  not  playful.  "Look  here,  Amy,  don't 
say  such  a  thing.  Don't  let  such  a  thing  get  into 
your  head  for  an  instant!  Our  happiness  isn't 
a  thing  to  talk  like  that  about." 

"I  feel  as  if — that  woman — was  standing  be 
tween  us ! " 

He  raised  her  face  and  made  her  look  into  his 
own,  at  once  stern  and  very  tender.  "Amy  love, 
we've  got  to  stop  this  right  now.  A  long  time 
ago — more  than  ten  years  ago — there  was  a  girl 
here  who  had  an  awfully  hard  time.  I  was  sorry 
for  her.  I'm  sorry  for  her  now.  Life's  hit  her 
good  and  hard.  We're  among  the  fortunate 
people  things  go  right  for.  We  can  be  together 
— happy,  having  friends,  everybody  approving, 
everybody  good  to  us.  We're  mighty  lucky  that 


32  FIDELITY 

it  is  that  way.  And  isn't  our  own  happiness  go 
ing  to  make  us  a  little  sorry  for  people  who  are 
outside  all  this!"  He  kissed  her.  "Come  now, 
sweetheart,  you're  not  going  to  harden  up  like 
that.  Why,  that  wouldn't  be  you  at  all!" 

She  was  quiet;  after  a  little  she  smiled  up  at 
him,  the  sweet,  reminiscently  plaintive  little  smile 
of  one  just  comforted.  For  the  moment,  at  least, 
love  had  won  her.  "Sometime  I'll  tell  you  any 
thing  about  it  you  want  to  know,"  he  said,  hold 
ing  her  tenderly  and  smoothing  her  hair.  ' '  Mean 
while — let's  forget  it.  Come  on  now,  honey, 
change  your  dress — get  into  something  warmer 
and  go  for  a  ride  with  me.  I've  got  to  make 
a  couple  of  calls,  and  I  want  you  along." 

"You  know,"  he  was  saying  as  he  unfastened 
her  dress  for  her,  "after  I  knew  I  was  going  to 
have  you,  and  before  I  got  you  here,  I  used  to 
think  so  much  about  this  very  thing — the  fun  of 
having  you  going  around  with  me— doing  things 
together.  Now  it  seems — "  He  did  not  finish, 
for  he  was  passionately  kissing  the  white  shoulder 
which  the  unfastened  dress  had  bared.  "Amy, 
dear," — his  voice  choked — "oh,  doesn't  it  seem 
too  good  to  be  true!" 

His  feeling  for  her  had  chased  the  other  things 
away.  She  softened  to  happiness,  then  grew  gay. 
They  were  merry  and  happy  again.  All  seemed 
well  with  them.  But  when,  on  his  rounds,  they 
passed  the  Hollands'  and  Ted  waved  from  the 


FIDELITY  33 

porch  he  had  an  anxious  moment  of  fearing  she 
would  ask  who  that  was  and  their  crust  of  happi 
ness  would  let  them  through.  He  quickly  began 
a  spirited  account  of  an  amusing  thing  that  had 
happened  in  the  office  that  day.  His  dream  had 
been  of  a  happiness  into  which  he  could  sink,  not 
ground  on  the  surface  that  must  be  fought  for 
and  held  by  effort ;  but  he  did  not  let  himself  con 
sider  that  then. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

The  train  for  Chicago  was  several  hours  out 
from  Denver  when  the  man  who  had  decided  that 
it  was  an  uninteresting  car  began  watching  the 
woman  who  was  facing  him  from  several  seats 
away.  He  was  one  of  those  persons  with  a  drab 
exterior  but  not  a  similarly  colored  imagination, 
and  he  was  always  striving  to  defeat  the  meager 
life  his  exterior  consigned  him  to  by  projecting 
himself  into  the  possible  experiences  of  people 
he  watched  on  the  trains. 

Afterwards  he  wondered  that  he  should  at  first 
have  passed  this  woman  by  with  the  mere  impres 
sion  of  a  nice-looking  woman  who  seemed  tired. 
It  was  when  he  chanced  to  look  at  her  as  she  was 
looking  from  the  window  that  she  arrested  him. 
Her  sweet  face  had  steeled  itself  to  something, 
she  was  as  if  looking  out  at  a  thing  that  hurt  her, 
but  looking  with  the  courage  to  bear  that  hurt. 
He  turned  and  looked  from  the  window  in  the 
direction  of  her  intense  gaze  and  then  smiled  at 
himself  as  he  turned  back  from  the  far-reaching 
monotonous  plain  of  Eastern  Colorado;  he  might 
have  known  that  what  she  was  looking  at  was  not 
spread  out  there  for  anyone  else  to  see. 

34 


FIDELITY  35 

She  interested  him  all  through  the  two  days. 
She  puzzled  him.    He  relieved  the  tedium  of  the 
journey  with  speculations  on  what  sort  of  thing 
it  was  she  was  thinking  about,  going  over.    He 
would  arrive  at  a  conclusion  in  which  he  felt  con 
siderable  satisfaction  only  to  steal  another  look 
at  her  and  find  that  she  did  not  look  at  all  like 
the  woman  he  had  made  up  his  mind  she  was. 
"What  held  him  was  the  way  feeling  shaped  her. 
She  had  a  delicate,  sweet  face,  but  there  were 
times  when  it  was  almost  repellent  in  its  somber- 
ness,  when  it  hardened  in  a  way  that  puzzled  him. 
She  would  sit  looking  from  the  window  and  it  was 
as  if  a  dense  sadness  had  settled  down  upon  her ; 
then  her  face  would  light  with  a  certain  sad  ten 
derness,  and  once  he  had  the  fancy  of  her  lifting 
her  head  out  of  gloom  to  listen  to  a  beautiful, 
far-away  call.     There  were  long  meditations,  far 
steady  looks  out  at  something,  little  reminiscent 
smiles  that  lingered  about  her  sensitive  mouth 
after  her  eyes  had  gone  sad  again.     She  would 
grow  tired  of  thinking  and  close  her  eyes  and  seem 
to  try  to  rest.    Her  face,  at  those  times,  showed 
the  wear  of  hard  years,  laying  bare  lines  that  one 
took  no  count  of  when  her  eyes  were  lighted  and 
her  mouth  sensitive.    Frequently  she  would  turn 
from  herself  and  smile  at  the  baby  across  the 
aisle;  but  once,  when  the  baby  was  crowing  and 
laughing  she  abruptly  turned  away.    He  tried  to 
construct  "a  life"  for  her,  but  she  did  not  stay  in 


36  FIDELITY 

any  life  he  carefully  arranged.  There  were  times 
when  he  impatiently  wondered  why  he  should  be 
wondering  so  much  about  her;  those  were  the 
times  when  she  seemed  to  have  let  it  all  go,  was 
inert.  But  though  he  did  not  succeed  in  getting 
a  "life"  for  her,  she  gave  him  a  freshened  sense 
of  life  as  immensely  interesting,  as  charged  with 
pain  and  sweetness. 

It  was  over  the  pain  and  the  sweetness  of  life 
that  this  woman — Euth  Holland — brooded  during 
the  two  days  that  carried  her  back  to  the  home  of 
her  girlhood.  She  seemed  to  be  going  back  over 
a  long  bridge.  That  part  of  her  life  had  been 
cut  away  from  her.  With  most  lives  the  past 
grew  into  the  future;  it  was  as  a  growth  that 
spread,  the  present  but  the  extent  of  the  growth 
at  the  moment.  With  her  there  had  been  the 
sharp  cut;  not  a  cut,  but  a  tear,  a  tear  that  left 
bleeding  ends.  Back  there  lay  the  past,  a  sepa 
rated  thing.  During  the  eleven  years  since  her 
life  had  been  torn  from  that  past  she  had  seen  it 
not  only  as  a  separate  thing  but  a  thing  that  had 
no  reach  into  the  future.  The  very  number  of 
miles  between,  the  fact  that  she  made  no  journeys 
back  home,  contributed  to  that  sense  of  the  cleav 
age,  the  remoteness,  the  finality.  Those  she  had 
left  back  there  remained  real  and  warm  in  her 
memory,  but  her  part  with  them  was  a  thing 
finished.  It  was  as  if  only  shoots  of  pain  could 
for  the  minute  unite  them. 


FIDELITY  37 

Turning  her  face  back  toward  home  turned  her 
back  to  herself  there.  She  dwelt  upon  home  as 
she  had  left  it,  then  formed  the  picture  of  what 
she  would  find  now.  Her  mother  and  her  grand 
father  would  not  be  there.  The  father  she  had 
left  would  not  be  there.  A  dying  man  would  be 
there.  Ted  would  be  grown  up.  She  wondered 
if  anyone  had  taken  care  of  the  flowers.  Would 
there  be  any  roses?  She  and  her  mother  had 
always  taken  care  of  them.  Edith — 1  Would 
Terror  be  there !  He  was  only  about  three  when 
she  left;  dogs  did  live  as  long  as  that.  She  had 
named  him  Terror  because  of  his  puppy  pranks. 
But  there  would  be  no  puppy  pranks  now.  It 
would  be  a  sedate  old  dog  she  would  find.  He 
would  not  know  her — she  who  had  cared  for  him 
and  romped  with  him  through  his  puppyhood. 
But  they  had  not  shared  experiences. 

On  the  train  carrying  her  back  home  her  own 
story  opened  freshly  to  her.  Again  and  again 
she  would  be  caught  into  it.  ... 


Euth  Holland — the  girl  of  twenty — was  waiting 
for  Deane  Franklin  to  come  and  take  her  to  the 
dance  at  the  Country  Club.  She  was  dressed  and 
wandering  restlessly  about  the  house,  looking  in 
mirrors  as  she  passed  them,  pleased  with  herself 
in  her  new  white  dress.  There  was  an  excite 
ment  in  the  fact  that  she  had  not  seen  Deane  for 


38  FIDELITY 

almost  a  year;  he  had  been  away,  studying  medi 
cine  at  Johns  Hopkins.  She  wondered  if  he  would 
seem  any  different ;  wondered — really  more  inter 
ested  in  this  than  in  the  other — if  she  would  seem 
any  different  to  him. 

She  did  not  think  of  Deane  "that  way"  she  had 
told  Edith  Lawrence,  her  bosom  friend  from  child 
hood,  when  Edith  that  afternoon  had  hinted  at 
romantic  possibilities.  Edith  was  in  romantic 
mood  because  she  and  Will  Blair  were  in  the  happy 
state  of  getting  over  a  quarrel.  For  a  month  Euth 
had  listened  to  explosions  against  Will  Blair. 
Now  it  was  made  up  and  Edith  was  in  sweetly 
chastened  spirit.  She  explained  to  Euth  at  great 
length  and  with  much  earnestness  that  she  had 
not  understood  Will,  that  she  had  done  him  a 
great  injustice;  and  she  was  going  to  the  party 
with  him  that  night.  Edith  and  Will  and  Deane 
and  Euth  were  going  together. 

They  were  singularly  unmatured  for  girls  of 
twenty.  Their  experiences  had  not  taken  them 
outside  the  social  life  of  the  town,  and  within  it 
they  had  found  too  easy,  pre-prepared  sailing  for 
any  real  finding  or  tests  of  themselves.  They 
were  daughters  of  two  of  the  town's  most  im 
portant  families;  they  were  two  of  the  town's 
most  attractive  girls.  That  fixed  their  place  in 
a  round  of  things  not  deepening,  not  individualiz 
ing.  It  was  pleasant,  rather  characterless  living 


FIDELITY  39 

on  a  limited  little  part  of  tlie  surface  of  life.  They 
went  to  "the  parties/'  occupied  with  that  social 
round  that  is  as  definite  a  thing  in  a  town  of  forty 
thousand  as  in  a  metropolis.  Their  emotional  ex 
periences  had  been  little  more  than  part  of  their 
social  life — within  it  and  of  the  character  of  it. 
Attractive,  popular,  of  uncontested  place  in  the 
society  in  which  they  found  themselves,  they  had 
not  known  the  strivings  and  the  hea*t-aches  that 
can  intensify  life  within  those  social  boundaries. 
They  were  always  invited.  When  they  sat  out 
dances  it  was  because  they  wanted  to.  Life  had 
dealt  too  favoringly  and  too  uneventfully  with 
them  to  find  out  what  stuff  was  really  in  them. 
They  were  almost  always  spoken  of  together — 
Edith  Lawrence  and  Euth  Holland — Euth  and 
Edith.  That  was  of  long  standing ;  they  had  gone 
to  primary  school  together,  to  Sunday-school, 
through  the  high-school.  They  told  each  other 
things;  they  even  hinted  at  emotions  concealed 
within  their  breasts,  of  dissatisfactions  and  long 
ings  there  were  no  words  for.  Once  Euth  con 
fided  that  sometimes  she  wept  and  could  not  have 
said  why,  and  great  seemed  the  marvel  when 
Edith  confessed  to  similar  experiences.  They 
never  suspected  that  girlhood  was  like  that;  they 
were  like  that,  and  set  apart  and  united  in  being 
so. 
But  those  spiritual  indulgences  were  rare;  for 


40  FIDELITY 

the  most  part  they  were  what  would  be  called  two 
wholesome,  happy  girls,  girls  whose  lot  had  fallen 
in  pleasant  places. 

Ruth  wanted  to  go  to  college,  but  her  father 
had  kept  her  from  it.  Women  should  marry  and 
settle  down  and  have  families  was  the  belief  of 
Cyrus  Holland.  Going  to  college  put  foolish  no 
tions  in  their  heads.  Not  being  able  to  go  had 
been  Ruth's  first  big  disappointment.  Edith  had 
gone  East  to  a  girls'  school.  At  the  last  minute, 
realizing  how  lonely  she  would  be  at  home  with 
out  her  chum,  Ruth  had  begged  to  go  with  her. 
Her  mother  had  urged  it  for  her.  But  it  was  an 
expensive  school  to  which  Edith  was  going,  and 
when  he  found  what  it  would  cost  Ruth's  father 
refused,  saying  he  could  not  afford  it,  and  that  it 
was  nonsense,  anyway.  Ruth  had  then  put  in  a 
final  plea  for  the  State  University,  which  would 
not  cost  half  as  much  as  Edith's  school.  Seeing 
that  it  meant  more  to  her  than  he  had  known,  and 
having  a  particular  affection  for  this  younger 
daughter  of  his,  Mr.  Holland  was  on  the  point  of 
giving  in  when  the  newspapers  came  out  with  a 
scandal  that  centered  about  the  suicide  of  a  girl 
student  at  the  university.  That  settled  it;  Ruth 
would  stay  home  with  her  mother.  She  could  go 
on  with  music,  and  study  literature  with  Miss 
Collins.  Miss  Collins  stood  for  polite  learning 
in  the  town.  There  was  not  the  remotest  danger 
of  an  education  received  through  her  unfeminiz- 


FIDELITY!  41 

ing  a  girl.  But  Buth  soon  abandoned  Miss  Col 
lins,  scornfully  informing  her  parent  that  she 
would  as  soon  study  literature  with  a  mummy. 

With  Buth,  the  desire  to  go  to  college  had  been 
less  a  definite  craving  for  knowledge  than  a  dif 
fused  longing  for  an  enlarged  experience.  She 
wanted  something  different,  was  impatient  for 
something  new,  something  more.  She  had  more 
curiosity  about  the  life  outside  their  allotted  place 
than  her  friend  Edith  Lawrence  had.  She  wanted 
to  go  to  college  because  that  would  open  out  from 
what  she  had.  Buth  would  have  found  small 
satisfaction  in  that  girls'  school  of  Edith 's  had 
her  father  consented  to  her  going.  It  was  little 
more  than  the  polite  learning  of  Miss  Collins 
fashionably  re-dressed.  Edith,  however,  came 
home  with  a  new  grace  and  poise,  an  added  gift 
of  living  charmingly  on  the  surface  of  life,  and 
held  that  school  was  lovely. 

During  that  year  her  friend  was  away — Buth 
was  nineteen  then — she  was  not  so  much  unhappy 
as  she  was  growingly  impatient  for  something 
more,  and  expectant  of  it.  She  was  always  think 
ing  that  something  was  going  to  happen — that 
was  why  things  did  not  go  dead  for  her.  The  year 
was  intensifying  to  her;  she  missed  her  friend; 
she  had  been  baffled  in  something  she  wanted.  It 
made  her  conscious  of  wanting  more  than  she  had. 
Her  energies  having  been  shut  off  from  the  way 
they  had  wanted  to  go,  she  was  all  the  more  zest- 


42  FIDELITY 

ful  for  new  things  from  life.  There  was  mucH 
in  her  that  her  life  did  not  engage. 

She  loved  dancing.  She  was  happily  excited 
that  night  because  they  were  going  to  a  dance. 
Waiting  for  Deane,  she  wondered  if  he  had  danced 
any  during  the  year,  hoping  that  he  had,  and  was 
a  little  better  dancer  than  of  old.  Dear  Deane! 
She  always  had  that i  '  Dear  Deane ! ' '  feeling  after 
she  had  been  critical  about  him. 

She  wished  she  did  think  of  Deane  "that  way" 
— the  way  she  had  told  Edith  she  did  not  think  of 
him.  But  "that  way"  drew  her  from  thoughts 
of  Deane.  She  had  stopped  before  her  dressing- 
table  and  was  toying  with  her  manicure  things. 
She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass  and  saw  the  color 
coming  to  her  cheeks.  She  sat  there  dreaming — 
such  dreams  as  float  through  girlhood. 

Her  mother  came  in  to  see  how  she  looked. 
Mrs.  Holland  was  a  small,  frail-looking  woman. 
Euth  resembled  her,  but  with  much  added. 
Things  caught  into  Euth  were  not  in  her  mother. 
They  resembled  each  other  in  certain  definite 
things,  but  there  was  something  that  flushed  Euth 
to  life — transforming  her — that  did  not  live  in 
her  mother.  They  were  alike  as  a  beautiful  shell 
enclosing  a  light  may  be  like  one  that  is  not  lighted. 
Mrs,  Holland  was  much  occupied  with  the  social 
life  of  her  town.  She  was  light-hearted,  well- 
liked.  She  went  to  the  teas  and  card  parties 
which  abounded  there  and  accepted  that  as  life 


FIDELITY  43 

with  no  dissatisfaction  beyond  a  mild  desire  for 
more  money. 

She  also  enjoyed  the  social  life  of  her  daugh 
ter;  where  Kuth  was  to  go  and  what  she  would 
wear  were  matters  of  interest  and  importance. 
Indeed  life  was  compounded  of  matters  concern 
ing  where  one  would  go  and  what  one  would  wear. 

"Well,  Sally  Gordon  certainly  did  well  with 
that  dress,"  was  her  verdict.  "Some  think  she's 
falling  off.  Now  do  try  and  not  get  it  spoiled 
the  first  thing,  Euth.  Dancing  is  so  hard  on  your 
clothes. " 

She  surveyed  her  daughter  with  satisfaction. 
Euth  was  a  daughter  a  mother  would  survey  with 
satisfaction.  The  strong  life  there  was  in  her  was 
delicately  and  subtly  suggested.  She  did  not  have 
what  are  thought  to  be  the  easily  distinguishable 
marks  of  intense  feeling.  She  suggested  fine 
things — a  rare,  high  quality.  She  was  not  out- 
and-out  beautiful;  her  beauty  lurked  within  her 
feeling.  It  was  her  fluidity  that  made  her  lovely. 
Her  hazel  eyes  were  ever  changing  with  light  and 
feeling,  eyes  that  could  wonderfully  darken,  that 
glowed  in  a  rush  of  feeling  and  shone  in  expect 
ancy  or  delight, — eyes  that  the  spirit  made.  She 
had  a  lovely  brow,  a  sensitive,  beautiful  mouth. 
But  it  needed  the  light  within  to  find  her  beauty. 
Without  it  she  was  only  a  sweet-looking,  delicately 
fashioned  girl. 

"That's  Deane,"  said  Euth,  as  the  bell  rang. 


44  FIDELITY 

"I  want  to  see  him  too,"  said  Mrs.  Holland, 
"and  so  will  your  father. " 

Buth  met  him  in  the  hall,  holding  out  both  hands 
with,  "Deane,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you!" 

He  was  not  an  expressive  youth.  As  he  shook 
Buth's  hands  with  vigor,  he  exclaimed,  "Same 
here!  Same  here!"  and  straightway  he  seemed 
just  the  Deane  of  old  and  in  the  girl's  heart  was 
a  faint  disappointment. 

As  a  little  boy  people  had  called  Deane  Frank 
lin  a  homely  youngster.  His  thick,  sandyish  hair 
used  to  stand  up  in  an  amazing  manner.  He 
moved  in  a  peculiarly  awkward  way,  as  if  the 
jointing  of  him  had  not  been  perfectly  accom 
plished.  He  had  a  wide  generous  mouth  that  was 
attractive  when  it  was  not  screwed  out  of  shape. 
His  keen  blue  eyes  had  a  nice  twinkle.  His  ab 
rupt,  hearty  manner  seemed  very  much  his  own. 
He  was  better  dressed  than  when  Euth  had  last 
seen  him.  She  was  thinking  that  Deane  could 
actually  be  called  attractive  in  his  own  homely, 
awkward  way.  And  yet,  as  he  kept  shaking  her 
hands  up  and  down,  broadly  •  grinning,  nodding 
his  head, — "tickled  to  death  to  be  back,"  she 
felt  anew  that  she  could  not  think  of  Deane  ' i  that 
way."  Perhaps  she  had  known  him  too  long. 
She  remembered  just  how  absurd  he  had  looked 
in  his  first  long  trousers — and  those  silly  little 
caps  he  had  worn  perched  way  back  on  his  head ! 
Yet  she  really  loved  Deane,  in  a  way;  she  felt  a 


FIDELITY  45 

great  deal  nearer  to  him  than  to  her  own  brother 
Cyrus. 

They  had  gone  into  the  living-room.  Mrs.  Hol 
land  thought  he  had  grown — grown  broader,  any 
way  ;  Mr.  Holland  wanted  to  know  about  the  medi 
cal  school,  and  would  he  practice  in  Freeport? 
Ted  wanted  to  know  if  Johns  Hopkins  had  a  good 
team. 

" That's  "Will,  I  guess,"  he  said,  turning  to  Euth 
as  the  bell  rang. 

"Oh,  Will,"  cried  Mrs.  Holland,  "do  ask  Edith 
to  come  in  and  show  us  her  dress!  She  won't 
muss  it  if  she's  careful.  Her  mother  told  me  it 
was  the  sweetest  dress  Edith  ever  had." 

Edith  entered  in  her  bright,  charming  way,  ex 
hibiting  her  pretty  pink  dress  with  a  pleasure 
that  was  winning.  She  had  more  of  definite 
beauty  than  Euth — golden  hair,  really  sunny  hair, 
it  was,  and  big,  deep  blue  eyes  and  fresh,  even 
skin.  Euth  often  complained  that  Edith  had 
something  to  count  on;  she  could  tell  how  she 
was  going  to  look,  while  with  her — Euth — there 
was  never  any  knowing.  Some  of  the  times  when 
she  was  most  anxious  to  look  her  best,  she  was, 
as  she  bewailed  it,  a  fright.  Edith  was  larger 
than  Euth,  she  had  more  of  a  woman's  develop 
ment. 

Mrs.  Holland  followed  them  out  to  the  carriage. 
"Now  don't  stay  until  all  hours,"  was  her  part 
ing  admonition,  in  a  tone  of  comfortable  resigna- 


46  FIDELITY 

tion  to  the  fact  that  that  was  exactly  what  they 
would  do. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Holland,  who  had  gone  as  far 
as  the  door,  "I  don't  know  what  young  folks  are 
coming  to.  After  nine  o'clock  now!" 

"That  must  be  a  punk  school  Deane  goes  to," 
said  Ted,  his  mind  not  yet  pried  from  the  foot 
ball  talk. 


CHAPTEE  SIX 

"Our  dance. " 

With  a  swift  little  movement  the  girl  turned  a 
glowing  face  to  the  man  standing  before  her. 
Flushed  with  dancing,  keyed  high  in  the  pleasure 
and  triumphs  of  the  evening,  she  turned  the  same 
radiant  face  to  Stuart  Williams  as  he  claimed 
their  dance  that  she  would  have  turned  to  almost 
anyone  claiming  a  dance.  It  was  something  that 
came  to  life  in  the  man's  eyes  as  he  looked  down 
into  her  flushed  face,  meeting  her  happy,  shining 
eyes,  that  arrested  the  flashing,  impersonal  smile 
of  an  instant  before  and  underneath  that  imper 
sonal  gladness  of  youth  there  was  a  faint  flutter 
of  self. 

He  was  of  the  '  '  older  crowd ; ' '  it  happened  that 
she  had  never  danced  with  him  before.  He  was 
a  better  dancer  than  the  boys  of  her  own  set,  but 
somehow  that  old  impersonal  joy  in  dancing  was 
a  lesser  thing  now  than  the  sense  of  dancing  with 
this  man. 

"That  was  worth  coming  for,"  he  said  quietly, 
when  the  dance  and  the  encore  to  it  were  over  and 
they  found  themselves  by  one  of  the  doors  opening 
out  on  the  balcony. 

She  looked  up  with  a  smile.    It  was  a  smile 

47 


4S  FIDELITY 

curiously  touched  with  shyness.  He  saw  the  color 
wavering  in  her  sensitive,  delicate  face.  Then  he 
asked  lightly:  " Shall  we  see  what's  being  dis 
pensed  from  this  punch-bowl  1 ' ' 

With  their  ice,  they  stood  looking  out  into  the 
moonlight  over  a  wide  stretch  of  meadow  to  far 
hills.  "A  fine  night  to  ride  over  the  hills  and  far 
away,"  he  laughed  at  last,  his  voice  lingering  a 
little  on  the  fancy. 

She  only  laughed  a  little  in  reply,  looking  off 
there  toward  over  the  hills  and  far  away.  Watch 
ing  her,  he  wondered  why  he  had  never  thought 
anything  much  about  her  before.  He  would  have 
said  that  Euth  Holland  was  one  of  the  nice  at 
tractive  girls  of  the  town,  and  beyond  that  could 
have  said  little  about  her.  He  watched  the  flow 
of  her  slender  neck  into  her  firm  delicate  little 
chin,  the  lovely  corners  of  her  mouth  where  feel 
ing  lurked.  The  fancy  came  to  him  that  she  had 
not  settled  into  flesh  the  way  most  people  did, 
that  she  was  not  fixed  by  it.  He  puzzled  for  the 
word  he  wanted  for  her,  then  got  it — luminous 
was  what  she  was ;  he  felt  a  considerable  satisfac 
tion  in  having  found  that  word. 

"  Seems  to  me  you  and  Edith  Lawrence  grew 
up  in  a  terrible  hurry, "  he  began  in  a  slow,  teas 
ing  manner.  "Just  a  day  or  two  ago  you  were 
youngsters  racing  around  with  flying  pigtails,  and 
now  here  you  are — all  these  poor  young  chaps — 
and  all  us  poor  old  ones fighting  for  dances 


FIDELITY  49 

with  you.    What  made  you  hurry  5o  T '  he  laughed. 

The  coquette  in  most  normal  girls  of  twenty 
rose  like  a  little  imp  up  through  her  dreaming 
of  over  the  hills  and  far  away.  "Why,  I  don't 
know,"  she  said,  demurely;  "perhaps  I  was  hurry 
ing  to  catch  up  with  someone." 

His  older  to  younger  person  manner  fell  away, 
leaving  the  man  delighting  in  the  girl,  a  delight 
fully  daring  girl  it  seemed  she  was,,  for  all  that 
look  of  fine  things  he  had  felt  in  her  just  a  mo 
ment  before.  He  grew  newly  puzzled  about  her, 
and  interested  in  the  puzzle.  '  '  Would  you  like  to 
have  that  someone  stand  still  long  enough  to  give 
you  a  good  start?"  he  asked,  zestful  for  follow 
ing. 

But  she  could  not  go  on  with  it.  She  was  not 
used  to  saying  daring  things  to  "older  men." 
She  was  a  little  appalled  at  what  she  had  done — 
saying  a  thing  like  that  to  a  man  who  was  mar 
ried;  and  yet  just  a  little  triumphant  in  her  own 
audacity,  and  the  way  she  had  been  able  to  make 
him  feel  she  was  something  a  long  way  removed 
from  a  little  girl  with  flying  pigtails. 

"I  really  have  been  grown  up  for  quite  a 
while,"  she  said,  suddenly  grave. 

He  did  not  try  to  bring  her  back  to  the  other 
mood, — that  astonishing  little  flare  of  audacity; 
he  was  watching  her  changing  face,  like  her  voice 
it  was  sweetly  grave. 

The  music  had  begun  again — this  time  a  waltz. 


50  FIDELITY 

A  light  hand  upon  her  arm,  he  directed  her  back 
towards  the  dancing  floor. 

"I  have  this  taken,"  she  objected  hesitatingly. 

"This  is  an  extra,"  he  said. 

She  felt  sure  that  it  was  not;  she  knew  she 
ought  to  object,  that  it  was  not  right  to  be  treat 
ing  one  of  the  boys  of  her  own  crowd  that  way. 
But  that  consciousness  of  what  she  ought  to  be 
doing  fell  back — pale,  impotent — before  the  thing 
she  wanted  to  do.  ... 

They  were  silent  for  a  little  time  after ;  with 
out  commenting  on  doing  so,  they  returned  to 
their  place  outside.  "See?"  she  said  presently, 
"the  moon  has  found  another  hill.  That  wasn't 
there  when  we  were  here  before. ' ' 

"And  beyond  that  are  more  hills,"  he  said, 
"that  we  don't  see  even  yet." 

"I  suppose,"  she  laughed,  "that  it's  not  know 
ing  where  we  would  get  makes  over  the  hills  and 
far  away — fun." 

"Well,  anything  rather  than  standing  still." 
He  said  it  under  his  breath,  more  to  himself  than 
to  her.  But  it  was  to  her  he  added,  teasingly 
and  a  little  lingeringly:  "Unless,  of  course,  one 
were  waiting  for  someone  to  catch  up  with  one." 

She  smiled  without  turning  to  him;  watching 
her,  the  thought  found  its  way  up  through  the 
proprieties  of  his  mind  that  it  would  be  worth 
waiting  a  long  time  if,  after  the  wait,  one  could 
go  over  the  hills  and  far  away  with  a  girl  through 


FIDELITY  51 

whom  life  glowed  as  he  could  see  it  glowed  in  this 
girl;  no,  not  with  a  girl  like  this — boldly,  humor 
ously  and  a  little  tenderly  he  amended  in  his  mind 
— but  with  this  girl. 

She  wheeled  about.  ' '  I  must  go  back, ' '  she  said 
abruptly.  ' '  This  dance  is  with  "Will  Blair — I  must 
go  back.  I'll  have  a  hard  enough  time,"  she 
laughed,  a  little  nervously,  "making  it  right  with 
Louis  Stephens." 

"I'll  tell  him  I  heard  it  was  an  extra,"  he  said. 

She  halted,  looking  up  at  him.  "Did  you  hear 
that?"  she  demanded. 

He  seemed  about  to  say  some  light  thing,  but 
that  died  away.  "I  wanted  the  dance,"  was  his 
quiet  reply. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

It  was  a  June  evening  a  year  later  that  Stuart 
Williams  sat  on  the  steps  of  the  porch  that  ran 
round  the  side  of  his  house,  humoring  the  fox 
terrier  who  thought  human  beings  existed  to 
throw  sticks  for  dogs.  After  a  while  the  man 
grew  tired  of  that  theory  of  human  existence,  and 
bade  the  panting  Fritz  lie  down  on  the  step  be 
low  him.  From  there  Fritz  would  look  up  to  his 
master  appealingly,  eyes  and  tail  saying,  "Now 
let's  begin  again."  But  he  got  no  response,  so, 
in  philosophic  dog  fashion,  soon  stretched  out  for 
a  snooze. 

The  man  was  less  philosophic:  he  had  not  that 
gift  of  turning  from  what  he  wanted  to  what  he 
could  have. 

A  little  later  he  would  go  to  the  rehearsal  of 
the  out-of-door  play  the  Country  Club  was  getting 
ready  to  give.  Euth  Holland  would  be  there :  she 
too  was  in  the  play.  Probably  he  would  take  her 
home,  for  they  lived  in  the  same  neighborhood 
and  a  little  apart  from  the  others.  It  was  Mrs. 
Lawrence  who,  the  night  of  the  first  rehearsal, 
commented  with  relief  for  one  more  thing 
smoothly  arranged  upon  their  going  the  same  way. 

For  five  weeks  now  they  had  been  going  the 

§2 


FIDELITY  53 

same  way;  their  talk  on  those  homeward  walks 
had  been  the  lightest  of  talk,  for  the  most  part  a 
laughing  over  things  that  had  happened  during 
the  rehearsal.  And  yet  the  whole  world  had  be 
come  newly  alive,  until  tonight  it  seemed  a  tremu 
lous,  waiting  world.  That  light  talk  had  been  little 
more  than  a  pulling  back  from  the  pauses,  little 
more  than  retreat,  safeguard.  It  was  the  pauses 
that  lived  on  with  him,  creating  his  dreams;  her 
face  as  she  turned  it  to  him  after  a  silence  would 
sometimes  be  as  if  she  had  been  caught  into  that 
world  touched  to  new  life — world  that  waited. 
They  would  renew  the  light  talk  as  if  coming  back 
from  something. 

He  let  himself  slip  into  dreaming  now;  he  had 
told  himself  that  that,  at  least,  could  work  no  one 
harm,  and  in  quiet  hours,  when  he  smoked,  re 
laxed,  he  was  now  always  drawn  over  where  he 
knew  he  must  not  let  himself  go.  It  was  as  if 
something  stronger  than  he  was  all  around  him. 
One  drooping  hand  caressed  his  dog;  he  drew  in 
the  fragrance  from  a  rose  trellis  near  by;  the 
leaves  of  the  big  tree  moved  with  a  gentle  little 
sound,  a  sound  like  the  whisper  of  sweet  things; 
a  bird  note — goodnight — floated  through  the  dusk. 
He  was  a  man  whom  those  things  reached.  And 
in  the  last  year,  particularly  in  those  last  weeks, 
it  had  come  to  be  that  all  those  things  were  one 
with  Ruth  Holland ;  to  open  to  them  meant  being 
drawn  to  her. 


54  FIDELITY 

He  would  tell  himself  that  that  was  wrong,  mad ; 
nothing  he  could  tell  himself  seemed  to  have  any 
check  on  that  pull  there  was  on  him  in  the  thought 
of  her.  He  and  his  wife  were  only  keeping  up 
the  appearance  of  marriage.  For  two  years  he 
had  not  had  love.  He  was  not  a  man  who  could 
learn  to  live  without  it.  And  now  all  the  desirable 
ness  of  life,  hunger  for  love,  the  whole  of  earth's 
lure  seemed  to  break  in  through  the  feeling  for 
this  girl — that  wrong,  wonderful  feeling  that  had 
of  itself  flushed  his  heart  to  new  life. 

Sharply  he  pulled  himself  about,  shifting  posi 
tion  as  if  to  affirm  his  change  of  thinking.  It 
turned  him  from  the  outer  world  to  his  house ;  he 
saw  Marion  sitting  in  there  at  her  desk  writing  a 
letter.  He  watched  her,  thinking  about  her,  about 
their  lives.  She  was  so  poised,  so  cool;  it  would 
seem,  so  satisfied.  "Was  she  satisfied!  Did  denial 
of  life  leave  nothing  to  be  desired  ?  If  there  were 
stirrings  for  living  things  they  did  not  appear  to 
disturb  her  calm  surface.  He  wondered  if  a  night 
like  this  never  touched  old  things  in  her,  if  there 
were  no  frettings  for  what  she  had  put  out  of  her 
life. 

He  watched  her  small,  beautifully  shaped  dark 
head,  the  fine  smooth  hair  that  fell  over  the  little 
ear  he  had  loved  to  kiss.  She  was  beautiful;  it 
was  her  beauty  that  had  drawn  him  to  her.  She 
was  more  beautiful  than  Euth  Holland,  through 
whom  it  seemed  all  the  beauty  of  the  world  reached 


FIDELITY  55 

him.  Marion's  beauty  was  a  definite  separate 
thing;  his  face  went  tender  as  he  thought  how 
Euth  Holland  only  grew  beautiful  in  beauty,  as 
if  it  broke  through  her,  making  her. 

Once  more  he  moved  sharply,  disturbing  the 
little  dog  at  his  feet;  he  realized  where  his 
thoughts  had  again  gone,  how  looking  at  his  wife 
it  was  to  this  other  girl  he  was  drawn,  she  seem 
ing  near  him  and  Marion  apart.  He  grew  miser 
able  in  a  growing  feeling  of  helplessness,  in  a 
sense  of  waiting  disaster.  It  was  as  if  the  whole 
power  of  life  was  drawing  him  on  to  disaster. 
Again  that  bird  call  floated  through  the  dusk ;  the 
gentle  breeze  stirred  the  fragrance  of  flowers;  it 
came  to  seem  that  the  world  was  beautiful  that 
it  might  ensnare  him,  as  if  the  whole  power  of 
the  sweetness  of  life  was  trying  to  pull  him  over 
where  he  must  not  go.  He  grew  afraid.  He  got 
the  feeling  that  he  must  do  something — that  he 
must  do  it  at  once.  After  he  had  sat  there  brood 
ing  for  half  an  hour  he  abruptly  got  up  and  walked 
in  where  his  wife  was  sitting. 

" Marion,"  he  began  brusquely,  "I  should  like 
to  speak  to  you." 

She  had  been  sitting  with  her  back  to  the  door; 
at  his  strange  address  of  her  she  turned  round  in 
surprise;  she  looked  startled  when  she  saw  his 
strained  face. 

"We've  been  married  about  six  years,  isn't  it?" 

He  had  come  a  little  nearer,  but  remained  stand- 


56  FIDELITY 

ing.  He  still  spoke  in  that  rough  way.  She  did 
not  reply  but  nodded  slightly,  flushing. 

' l And  now  for  two  years  we — haven't  been  mar 
ried?" 

She  stiffened  and  there  was  a  slight  movement 
as  if  drawing  back.  She  did  not  answer. 

"I'm  thirty-four  and  you're  a  little  less  than 
that. ' '  He  paused  and  it  was  more  quietly,  though 
none  the  less  tensely  that  he  asked:  "Is  it  your 
idea  that  we  go  through  life  like  this  ? ' ' 

She  was  gathering  together  the  sheets  of  paper 
on  her  desk.  She  did  not  speak. 

i  i  You  were  angry  at  me — disappointed.  I  grant 
you,  as  I  did  at  the  time,  that  it  was  a  silly  affair, 
not — not  creditable.  I  tried  to  show  you  how  little 
it  meant,  how  it  had — just  happened.  Two  years 
have  passed;  we  are  still  young  people.  I  want 
to  know — do  you  intend  this  to  go  on?  Are  our 
whole  lives  to  be  spoiled  by  a  mere  silly  episode  1 ' ' 

She  spoke  then.  '  '  Mere  silly  episode, ' '  she  said 
with  a  high  little  laugh, ' '  seems  rather  a  slight  way 
to  dispose  of  the  fact  that  you  were  untrue  to 
me."  She  folded  her  letter  and  was  putting  it  in 
the  envelope.  It  would  not  go  in  and  she  refolded 
it  with  hands  not  steady. 

He  did  not  speak  until  she  had  sealed  the  letter 
and  was  sitting  there  looking  down  at  her  hands, 
rubbing  them  a  little,  as  if  her  interest  was  in 
them.  "Marion,"  he  asked,  and  his  voice  shook 
now,  "doesn't  it  ever  seem  to  you  that  life  is  too 


FIDELITY  57 

valuable  to  throw  away  like  this?"  She  made  no 
reply  and  angered  by  her  nnresponsiveness  he  ad 
ded  sharply:  "It's  rather  dangerous,  you  know." 

She  looked  up  at  him  then.  ' '  Is  this  a  threat  1 ' ' 
she  asked  with  a  faint,  mocking  smile. 

He  moved  angrily,  starting  to  leave  the  room. 
'  '  Have  you  no  feeling  1 "  he  broke  out  at  her.  ' '  Is 
this  all  you  want  from  life  ? ' ' 

She  colored  and  retorted :  *  'It  was  not  the  way 
I  expected  to  live  when  I  married  you." 

He  stood  there  doggedly  for  a  moment,  his  face 
working  with  nervousness.  "I  think  then,"  he 
said  roughly,  "that  we'd  better  Be  decent  enough 
to  get  a  divorce!"  At  what  he  saw  in  her  face 
he  cried  passionately:  "Oh  no,  you  don't  believe 
in  divorce — but  you  believe  in  this!" 

"Was  it  7  who  brought  it  about?"  she  cried, 
stung  to  anger. 

She  had  risen  and  for  an  instant  they  stood 
there  facing  each  other.  "Haven't  you  any  hu 
manity  1 "  he  shot  rudely  at  her.  ' '  Don 't  you  ever 


She  colored  but  drew  back,  in  command  of  her 
self  again.  "I  do  not  desecrate  my  feelings," 
she  said  with  composure;  "I  don't  degrade  my 
humanity. ' ' 

"Feeling — humanity!"  he  sneered,  and  wheeled 
about  and  left  the  room. 

He  started  at  once  for  his  rehearsal.  He  was 
trembling  with  anger  and  yet  underneath  that  pas- 


58  FIDELITY 

sion  was  an  unacknowledged  feeling  of  relief.  It 
had  seemed  that  he  had  to  do  something;  now  he 
told  himself  that  he  had  done  what  he  could.  He 
walked  slowly  through  the  soft  night,  seeking  con 
trol.  He  was  very  bitter  toward  Marion,  and  yet 
in  his  heart  he  knew  that  he  had  asked  for  what 
he  no  longer  wanted.  He  quickened  his  step  to 
ward  the  Lawrences ',  where  they  were  to  hold  the 
rehearsal,  where  he  would  find  Euth  Holland. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

After  the  maelstrom  of  passion  had  thrown  her 
out  where  life  left  her  time  to  think  about  what 
she  had  felt,  Euth  Holland  would  wonder  whether 
there  was  something  in  her  that  made  her  different 
from  the  good  people  of  the  world.  Through  it 
all  she  did  not  have  the  feeling  that  it  would  seem 
she  would  have;  what  she  did  did  not  make  her 
feel  as  she  knew,  when  she  came  to  think  it  out, 
she  would  be  supposed  to  feel  about  such  a  thing. 
In  hours  that  would  be  most  condemned  she  had 
had  a  simple  feeling  of  life  as  noble.  What  would 
be  called  the  basest  things  she  had  done  had 
seemed  to  free  something  within  her  that  made 
her  more  kind,  more  generous,  more  tender,  made 
her  as  a  singing  part  of  a  fine,  beautiful  world. 
Her  degradation  had  seemed  to  burn  away  all  that 
was  not  pure,  giving  her  a  sense  of  being  lifted 
up ;  it  was  as  if  through  this  illicit  love  a  spiritual 
fount  was  unsealed  that  made  her  consciously  one 
with  life  at  its  highest.  Afterwards  she  wondered 
about  it,  wondered  whether  she  was  indeed  dif- 
i?erent  from  people  who  were  good,  or  whether  it 
could  be  that  hearts  had  been  shown,  not  as  they 
were,  but  as  it  was  deemed  meet  they  should  be 
shown. 


60  FIDELITY 

When  she  and  Deane,  with  Edith  and  Will  Blair, 
went  home  from  the  dance  that  night,  something 
new  breathed  through  the  night.  It  was  hard  to 
join  in  the  talk ;  she  wanted  to  be  alone,  alone  with 
that  new  stir.  She  was  gentle  with  Deane  as  they 
stood  for  a  moment  at  the  door.  She  felt  tender 
toward  him.  A  little  throb  of  excitement  in  her 
voice,  the  way  her  eyes  shone,  made  him  linger 
there  with  her  a  moment  or  two.  It  was  as  if  he 
wanted  to  say  something  but  the  timid,  clumsy 
words  he  spoke  just  before  leaving  were,  "That 
sure  is  a  peach  of  a  dress.  You  had  them  all  beat 
tonight,  Buth,"  and  Euth  went  into  the  house 
knowing  now  for  sure  how  impossible  it  would  be 
ever  to  think  of  Deane  "that  way."  In  the  hour 
before  she  went  to  sleep  what  she  meant  by  '  *  that 
way"  was  a  more  living  thing  than  it  had  ever 
been  before. 

The  year  which  followed  was  not  a  happy  one ; 
it  was  a  disturbed,  a  fretted  year;  girlhood  was 
too  ruffled  for  contentment  in  the  old  things,  and 
yet  she  was  not  swept  on.  The  social  life  of  the 
town  brought  her  and  Stuart  Williams  together 
from  time  to  time.  They  always  had  several 
dances  together  at  the  parties.  It  was  those 
dances  that  made  the  party  for  her.  If  he  were 
not  there,  the  evening  was  a  dead  thing.  When 
he  was,  something  came  to  life  in  her  that  made 
everything  different.  She  would  be  excited;  she 
had  color;  her  eyes  shone.  It  made  her  gay,  as 


FIDELITY  61 

an  intoxicant  may  make  one  gay.  Though  when 
she  danced  with  him  she  went  curiously  silent; 
that  stilled  her.  After  going  home  she  would  lie 
awake  for  hours,  live  over  every  slightest  thing 
he  had  said,  each  glance  and  move.  It  was  an 
unreal  world  of  a  new  reality — quickened,  height 
ened,  delirious,  promising. 

In  that  first  year  she  sometimes  wondered  if 
it  was  what  would  be  called  a  flirtation.  It  did 
not  seem  so  to  her,  and  it  was  true  that  after  that 
first  night  at  the  Country  Club  the  quality  of  flirta 
tion  somehow  fell  away.  Afterwards,  when  it  be 
came  the  thing  that  made  her  life,  she  looked  back 
in  wonderment  to  the  light  little  way  it  had  begun. 
That  too  did  not  seem  as  it  should  be — that  a 
thing  of  such  tremendous  and  ruthless  power,  a 
thing  that  swept  her  whole  life  on  at  its  will, 
should  come  into  life  in  a  way  so  slight,  so  light, 
so  much  of  chance.  At  first  it  was  just  the  faint 
est  little  breath ;  but  it  stirred  something,  it  grew, 
it  became  a  great  wind  that  there  was  no  force 
anywhere  to  combat.  In  that  first  year  there  was 
between  them,  unspoken  of,  a  consciousness  of 
feeling  touched  in  the  other,  a  sense  of  the  dis 
turbance,  the  pull.  It  seemed  very  wonderful  to 
her  that  just  his  presence  in  the  room  could  make 
her  feel  alive  in  a  way  she  had  never  felt  alive 
before.  And  it  was  sweet  almost  beyond  belief, 
it  was  intoxicating,  to  come  to  know  that  her  pres 
ence  was  that  same  strange  wine  to  him.  She  had 


62  FIDELITY 

seen  his  eyes  anxiously  rove  a  crowded  room  and 
stop  with  her,  his  face  lighting.  She  loved  remem 
bering  his  face  once  at  a  card  party  of  the  older 
crowd  where  she  had  been  tardily  summoned  by  a 
disappointed  hostess.  He  had  been  in  the  room 
several  minutes,  she  watching  him  unseen.  He 
was  not  looking  anxiously  about  this  time,  as  she 
had  seen  him  do  at  the  dancing  parties.  She 
thought  he  looked  tired  as  he  and  his  wife  came 
in,  not  as  if  anticipating  pleasure.  Then  he  saw 
her  and  she  never  forgot  that  leap  of  glad  sur 
prise  in  his  eyes,  the  quick  change  in  him,  the  new 
buoyancy. 

She  would  have  supposed,  thinking  back  to  it 
afterward,  that  she  would  have  drawn  back;  that 
before  feeling  really  broke  through,  a  girl  such 
as  she,  reared  as  she  had  been,  a  part  of  such  a 
society,  a  girl,  as  they  afterward  said,  who  should 
have  known  right  from  wrong  would,  in  that  time 
of  its  gathering,  have  drawn  back  from  so  shame 
ful  a  thing  as  love  with  another  woman's  husband. 
It  was  as  mystifying  to  her  that  she  did  not  fight 
against  it  as  it  was  that  it  should  have  come.  She 
did  not  understand  the  one  nor  the  other.  Cer 
tainly  it  was  not  as  she  would  have  supposed  it 
would  be  had  she  heard  of  such  a  thing.  Some 
thing  seemed  to  have  caught  her  up,  to  have  taken 
her.  She  was  appalled  at  times,  but  the  truth  was 
that  she  was  carried  along  almost  without  resist 
ance;  ideas  of  resistance  were  there,  but  they 


FIDELITY  63 

were  pale  things,  not  charged  with  power.  She 
would  suppose,  had  she  known  the  story  only 
through  hearing  it,  that  she  would  have  thought 
intensely  and  become  wretched  in  the  thought  of 
Mrs.  Williams.  Perhaps  if  Mrs.  Williams  had 
been  a  plain  little  woman,  or  a  sad  looking  one, 
that  would  have  come  home  to  her  harder.  But 
one  would  not  readily  pity  Marion  Williams,  or 
get  the  feeling  of  wronging  her.  As  Marion 
Averley  she  had  been  the  reigning  girl  of  the  town. 
Euth,  ten  years  younger,  had  not  come  far  enough 
out  from  her  little  girl's  awe  of  Marion  Averley, 
the  young  lady,  to  be  quick  in  getting  the  feeling 
of  wronging  Marion  Williams,  the  wife.  Perhaps 
one  would  be  more  slow  in  getting  a  feeling  of 
wronging  the  most  smartly  dressed  woman  in  the 
room  than  would  be  the  case  with  the  wife  dowdy 
or  drab.  Mrs.  Williams,  while  not  radiating 
happiness,  seemed  somehow  impervious  to  un- 
happiness,  and  certainly  to  any  hurt  another 
woman  could  bring  her.  She  had  an  atmosphere 
of  high  self -valuation.  While  she  never  appeared 
to  be  having  an  especially  good  time  she  gave  a 
sense  of  being  perfectly  able  to  command  a  better 
one  had  it  pleased  her  to  do  so. 

People  had  supposed  that  Marion  Averley  would 
make  a  brilliant  marriage.  Her  grandfather  had 
made  his  money  in  lumber,  in  those  early  days  of 
lumber  kings  on  the  Mississippi.  Locally  they 
were  looked  upon  as  rich  people.  Marion  had 


64  FIDELITY 

gone  to  a  fashionable  school,  to  Europe.  People 
of  the  town  said  there  was  nothing  "local"  about 
her.  Other  girls  had  been  as  much  away  and  yet 
would  return  seeming  just  a  part  of  the  town. 
That  was  why  everyone  was  surprised  when  the 
Averleys  announced  Marion's  engagement  to 
Stuart  Williams.  He  was  distinctly  local  and  his 
people  were  less  important  than  hers.  He  had 
come  home  from  college  and  gone  into  business. 
His  father  had  a  small  canning  factory,  an  in 
dustry  that  for  years  had  not  grown  much,  re 
maining  one  of  the  small  concerns  in  a  town  of 
rapidly  growing  manufactories.  Stuart  went  into 
business  with  his  father  and  very  soon  there  were 
expansions,  new  methods ;  he  brought  imagination 
to  bear  upon  it,  and  a  big  fund  of  young  man's 
energy,  until  it  rapidly  came  up  from  a  ' '  nice  little 
business"  to  one  of  the  things  that  counted  in  the 
town.  He  had  a  talent  for  business ;  his  imagina 
tion  worked  that  way  and  he  was  what  they  called 
a  hustler.  He  soon  became  a  part  of  a  number  of 
things,  both  personal  affairs  and  matters  of  public 
concern.  He  came  to  be  alluded  to  as  one  of  the 
prominent  young  business  men.  Even  before 
Marion  Averley  married  him  people  were  saying 
that  he  would  make  money. 

They  liked  her  for  marrying  him.  They  said 
it  showed  that  there  was  more  to  her  than  they 
had  supposed,  that  there  was  warmth  she  did  not 
show.  For  she  must  have  married  him  for  the 


FIDELITY  65 

good  old  reason  that  she  had  fallen  in  love  with 
him.  Their  engagement  brought  Stuart  Williams 
into  a  new  social  conspicuousness,  though  he  had 
the  qualities — in  particular  a  certain  easy,  sunny 
manner — that  had  made  him  popular  all  along. 
During  the  engagement  people  spoke  of  the  way 
Marion  seemed  to  thaw  out;  they  liked  her  much 
better  than  they  had  in  the  days  of  being  awed 
by  her  sophistication,  her  aloofness. 

After  their  marriage  the  Williams '  were  leaders 
of  the  young  married  set.  Their  house  was  the 
gayest  place  in  town;  Stuart  Williams  had  the 
same  talent  in  hospitality  that  he  had  for  busi 
ness — growing,  perhaps,  out  of  the  same  qualities. 
He  was  very  generally  and  really  deeply  liked; 
they  called  him  a  good  fellow,  a  lovable  chap. 
For  about  four  years  people  spoke  of  it  as  a  suc 
cessful  marriage,  though  there  were  no  children. 
And  then,  just  what  it  was  no  one  knew,  but  the 
Williams'  began  to  seem  different,  going  to  their 
house  became  a  different  thing.  The  people  who 
knew  Marion  best  had  a  feeling  that  she  was  not 
the  same  after  the  visit  of  that  gay  little  Southern 
matron  whom  she  had  known  in  school  at  Wash 
ington.  It  was  very  gay  at  the  Williams '  through 
that  visit,  and  then  Marion  said  she  was  tired  out 
and  they  were  going  to  draw  in  for  a  little,  and 
somehow  they  just  never  seemed  to  emerge  from 
that  drawing  in.  Her  friends  wondered;  they 
talked  about  how  Stuart  and  this  friend  of 


66  FIDELITY 

Marion's  had  certainly  hit  it  off  wonderfully; 
some  of  them  suspected,  but  Marion  gave  no  con 
fidences.  She  seemed  to  carry  her  head  higher 
than  ever ;  in  fact,  in  some  curious  way  she  seemed 
to  become  Marion  Averley  again  while  Stuart 
Williams  concentrated  more  and  more  upon  the 
various  business  affairs  he  was  being  drawn  into. 
It  came  about  that  the  Williams'  were  less  and  less 
mentioned  when  the  subject  of  happy  marriages 
was  up,  and  when  time  had  swung  Euth  Hol 
land  and  Edith  Lawrence  into  the  social  life  of 
the  town  it  was  the  analytical  rather  than  the 
romantically  minded  citizens  who  were  talking 
about  them. 

Perhaps  life  would  have  been  quite  another 
thing  for  a  number  of  people  if  the  Country  Club 
had  not  decided  to  replenish  its  treasury  by  giving 
a  play.  Mrs.  Lawrence  was  chairman  of  the  enter 
tainment  committee.  That  naturally  brought 
Edith  and  Euth  into  the  play,  and  one  night  after 
one  of  those  periods  of  distraction  into  which  the 
organizer  of  amateur  theatricals  is  swept  it  was 
Mrs.  Lawrence  who  exclaimed,  ' '  Stuart  Williams ! 
Why  couldn't  he  do  that  part?" — and  Stuart 
Williams,  upon  learning  who  was  in  the  cast,  said 
he  would  see  what  he  could  do  with  it. 

Again,  at  the  close  of  the  first  rehearsal,  as  they 
stood  about  in  the  hall  at  the  Lawrences ',  laughing 
over  mishaps,  it  was  Mrs.  Lawrence  who  said, 


FIDELITY  67 

"You  and  Buth  go  the  same  way,  don't  you, 
Stuart  1" 

Tonight  they  were  going  that  way  after  the  final 
rehearsal.  It  was  later  than  usual;  they  went 
slowly,  saying  little.  They  had  fallen  silent  as 
they  neared  Buth's  home ;  they  walked  slowly  and 
in  silence  outside  the  fence;  paused  an  instant  at 
the  gate,  then,  very  slowly,  started  up  the  walk 
which  led  to  the  big  white  square  house  and  came 
to  a  stop  beneath  the  oak  tree  which  was  so  near 
the  house  that  its  branches  brushed  the  upper 
window  panes. 

They  stood  there  silent;  the  man  knew  that  he 
ought  to  go  at  once ;  that  in  that  silence  the  feel 
ing  which  words  had  so  thinly  covered  would  break 
through  and  take  them.  But  knowing  he  should 
go  seemed  without  power  to  make  him  go.  He 
watched  the  girPs  slightly  averted  face.  He  knew 
why  it  was  averted.  He  felt  sure  that  he  was  not 
alone  in  what  he  felt. 

And  so  he  stood  there  in  the  sweetness  of  that 
knowing,  the  sweetness  of  that  understanding  why 
she  held  herself  almost  rigid  like  that,  feeling  surg 
ing  higher  in  him  in  the  thought  that  she  too  was 
fighting  feeling.  The  breeze  moved  the  hair  on 
her  temples ;  he  could  see  the  throb  in  her  uncov 
ered  throat,  her  thin  white  dress  moving  over  her 
quick  breathing.  Life  was  in  her,  and  the  desire 
for  life.  She  seemed  so  tender,  so  sensitive. 


68  FIDELITY 

He  moved  a  step  nearer  her,  unable  to  deny 
himself  the  sweetness  of  confirming  what  it  was 
so  wonderful  to  think.  "I  won't  be  taking  you 
home  tomorrow  night, "  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him,  then  swiftly  turned  away, 
but  not  before  he  had  seen  her  eyes. 

" Shall  you  care?"  he  pressed  it,  unsteadily. 

He  knew  by  her  high  head,  her  tenseness,  that 
she  was  fighting  something  back;  and  he  saw  the 
quivering  of  her  tender  mouth. 

She  cared !  She  did  care.  Here  was  a  woman 
who  cared;  a  woman  who  wanted  love — his  love; 
a  woman  for  whom  life  counted,  as  it  counted  for 
him.  After  barren,  baffled  days,  days  of  denial 
and  humiliation,  the  sweetness  of  being  desired 
possessed  him  overwhelmingly  as  they  stood  there 
in  the  still,  fragrant  night  before  the  darkened 
house. 

He  knew  that  he  must  go ;  he  had  to  go ;  it  was 
go  now,  or — .  But  still  he  just  stood  there,  unable 
to  do  what  he  knew  he  should  do,  reason  trying 
to  get  hold  of  that  moment  of  gathering  passion, 
training  striving  to  hold  life. 

It  was  she  who  brought  them  together.  With 
a  smothered  passionate  little  sob  she  had  swayed 
toward  him,  and  then  she  was  in  his  arms  and  he 
was  kissing  her  wet  eyes,  that  tender  mouth,  the 
slim  throbbing  throat. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

There  followed  three  years  of  happiness  wrung 
from  wretchedness,  years  in  which  the  splendor 
of  love  would  blaze  through  the  shame  of  con 
cealment,  when  joy  was  always  breaking  out 
through  fear,  when  moments  of  beautiful  peace 
trembled  there  in  the  ugly  web  of  circumstance. 
Life  was  flooded  with  beauty  by  a  thing  called 
shameful. 

Her  affairs  as  a  girl  went  on  just  the  same ;  the 
life  on  the  surface  did  not  change.  She  continued 
as  Euth  Holland — the  girl  who  went  to  parties 
with  the  boys  of  her  own  set,  one  of  her  particular 
little  circle  of  girls,  the  chum  of  Edith  Lawrence, 
the  girl  Deane  Franklin  liked  best.  But  a  life 
grew  underneath  that — all  the  time  growing, 
crowding.  She  appeared  to  remain  a  girl  after 
passion  had  swept  her  over  into  womanhood.  To 
be  living  through  the  most  determining,  most  in 
tensifying  experience  of  life  while  she  appeared 
only  to  be  resting  upon  the  surface  was  the  har 
assing  thing  she  went  through  in  those  years  be 
fore  reality  came  crashing  through  pretence  and 
disgrace  brought  relief. 

She  talked  to  but  one  person  in  those  years. 
That  was  Deane.  The  night  he  told  her  that  he 
loved  her  she  let  him  see. 

69 


70  FIDELITY 

That  was  more  than  a  year  after  the  night 
Stuart  Williams  took  her  home  from  that  last  re 
hearsal;  Deane  was  through  school  now  and  had 
come  home  to  practice  medicine.  She  had  felt  all 
along  that  once  he  was  at  home  for  good  she  might 
have  to  tell  Deane;  not  alone  because  he  would 
interfere  with  her  meetings  with  Stuart,  but  be 
cause  it  seemed  she  could  not  bear  the  further 
strain  of  pretending  with  him.  And  somehow  she 
would  particularly  hate  pretending  with  Deane. 
Though  the  night  she  did  let  him  see  it  was  not 
that  there  was  any  determination  for  doing  so, 
but  because  things  had  become  too  tense  that  night 
and  she  had  no  power  to  go  on  dissembling. 

It  began  in  irritation  at  him,  the  vicious  irrita 
tion  that  springs  out  against  the  person  who  up 
sets  a  plan  he  knows  nothing  about,  and  cannot 
be  told  of. 

She  had  come  in  from  an  errand  down  town 
and  was  about  to  dress  hurriedly  to  go  over  to 
Edith's  for  dinner.  She  was  going  to  make  some 
excuse  for  getting  away  from  there  early  and 
would  have  an  hour  with  Stuart,  one  of  those 
stolen  hours  that  often  crowded,  agitated,  a  num 
ber  of  the  hours  before  it,  one  of  those  hours  of 
happiness  when  fear  always  stood  right  there,  but 
when  joy  had  a  marvellous  power  to  glow  in  an 
atmosphere  of  ugly  things.  A  few  nights  before 
she  had  tried  to  arrange  one  of  those  times,  and 
just  as  she  was  about  to  leave  the  house,  saying 


FIDELITY  71 

some  vague  thing  about  running  in  somewhere — 
there  was  no  strict  surveillance  on  members  of 
the  Holland  household — a  friend  who  had  been 
very  ill  and  was  just  beginning  to  go  about  had 
come  to  see  her  and  she  had  been  obliged  to  sit 
there  through  the  hour  she  had  been  living  for, 
striving  to  crowd  down  what  she  was  feeling  and 
appear  delighted  that  her  friend  was  able  to  be 
about,  chatting  lightly  of  inconsequential  things 
while  she  could  think  of  nothing  but  Stuart  wait 
ing  for  her,  had  had  to  smile  while  she  wanted  to 
sob  in  the  fury  of  disappointed  passion. 

The  year  had  brought  many  disappointments 
like  that,  disappointments  which  found  their  way 
farther  into  the  spirit  because  they  dared  not  show 
on  the  surface.  Of  late  there  had  been  so  many 
of  them  that  it  was  growing  hard  to  hold  from  her 
manner  her  inner  chafing  against  them.  There 
were  times  when  all  the  people  who  loved  her 
seemed  trying  to  throw  things  in  her  way,  and  it 
was  the  more  maddening  because  blindly  done. 
It  was  hurting  her  relations  with  people ;  she  hated 
them  when  they  blunderingly  stepped  in  the  way 
of  the  thing  that  had  come  to  mean  everything  to 
her. 

She  was  particularly  anxious  about  this  night 
for  Stuart  was  going  out  of  town  on  a  business 
trip  and  she  would  not  see  him  again  for  more 
than  a  week.  It  was  her  grandfather  who  made 
the  first  difficulty;  as  she  was  going  up  the  stairs 


72  FIDELITY 

lie  called,  "You  going  over  to  the  Lawrences'  to 
night,  Euth  r ' 

When  she  had  answered  yes  he  continued :  l '  It 
wouldn't  be  much  out  of  your  way,  would  it,  to 
run  on  over  to  the  Aliens '  ? " 

She  hesitated ;  anything  her  grandfather  asked 
of  her  was  hard  to  refuse,  not  only  because  she 
loved  him  and  because  he  was  old,  but  because  it 
hurt  her  to  see  how  he  missed  the  visiting  around 
among  his  old  friends  that  his  rheumatism  had  of 
late  cut  him  off  from. 

"Why — no,"  she  answered,  wondering  just  how 
she  could  get  it  in,  for  it  did  take  her  out  of  her 
way,  and  old  Mr.  Allen  would  want  to  talk  to  her ; 
it  was  going  to  be  hard  to  get  away  from  Edith's 
anyway,  and  the  time  would  be  so  short,  for 
Stuart  would  have  to  leave  for  his  train  at  half 
past  nine.  She  quickly  decided  that  she  would  go 
over  there  before  dinner,  even  though  it  made  her 
a  little  late.  Maybe  she  didn't  need  to  comb  her 
hair,  after  all. 

She  was  starting  up  the  stairs  when  her  grand 
father  called:  "Wait  a  minute.  Come  here, 
Euth." 

She  came  back,  twirling  the  fingers  of  one  hand 
nervously.  Her  grandfather  was  fumbling  in  the 
drawer  of  his  secretary.  "I  want  you  to  take  this 
letter — tell  him  I  got  it  yesterday — "  He  stopped, 
peering  at  the  letter;  Euth  stood  there  with  hand 
clenched  now,  foot  tapping.  "Why  no,  that's  not 


FIDELITY  73 

the  one,"  he  rambled  on;  "I  must  have  put  it 
up  above  here.  Or  could  it — " 

"Oh,  I'm  in  a  hurry,  grandfather!"  cried  the 
girl. 

He  closed  the  drawer  and  limped  over  to  his 
chair.  "Just  let  it  go,  then,"  he  said  in  the  hurt 
voice  of  one  who  has  been  refused  a  thing  he  can 
not  do  for  himself. 

'  '  Now,  grandfather ! ' '  Euth  cried,  swiftly  mov 
ing  toward  him.  "How  can  you  be  so  silly — 
just  because  I'm  a  little  nervous  about  being  late ! ' ' 

"Seems  to  me  you're  always  a  little  nervous 
about  something  lately,"  he  remarked,  rising  and 
resuming  the  leisurely  search  for  the  letter. 
"You  young  folks  make  such  hard  work  of  your 
good  times  nowadays.  Anybody  'd  think  you  had 
the  world  on  your  shoulders." 

Euth  made  no  reply,  standing  there  as  quietly 
as  she  could,  waiting  while  her  grandfather 
scanned  a  letter.  "Yes,  this  is  the  one,"  he 
finally  said.  "You  tell  him—"  She  had  the 
letter  and  was  starting  for  the  stairs  while  listen 
ing  to  what  she  was  to  tell,  considering  at  the  same 
time  how  she'd  take  the  short  cut  across  the  high- 
school  ball  park — she  could  make  it  all  right  by 
half  past  six.  Feeling  kindly  toward  her  grand 
father  because  it  was  going  to  be  all  right,  after 
all,  she  called  back  brightly:  "Yes,  grandfather, 
I'll  get  it  to  him;  I'll  run  right  over  there  with 
it  first  thing." 


74  FIDELITY 

"Oh,  look  here,  Euth!"  he  cried,  hobbling  out 
to  the  hall.  "Don't  do  that!  I  want  you  to  go 
in  the  evening.  He'll  not  be  home  till  eight 
o'clock.  He's  going — " 

"Yes,  grandfather,"  she  called  from  the  head 
of  the  stairs  in  a  peculiarly  quiet  voice.  "I  see. 
It 'sail  right." 

Then  she  could  not  find  the  things  she  wanted 
to  put  on.  There  was  a  button  off  her  dress  and 
her  thread  broke  in  sewing  it.  She  was  holding 
herself  very  tight  when  her  mother  came  leisurely 
into  the  room  and  stood  there  commenting  on  the 
way  Euth's  hair  was  done,  on  the  untidiness  of 
her  dressing-table,  mildly  reproving  her  for  a 
growing  carelessness.  Then  she  wandered  along 
about  something  Euth  was  to  tell  Edith's  mother. 
Euth,  her  trembling  fingers  tangling  her  thread, 
was  thinking  that  she  was  always  to  tell  somebody 
something  somebody  else  had  said,  take  something 
from  one  person  to  another.  The  way  people  were 
all  held  together  in  trivial  things,  that  thin,  seem 
ingly  purposeless  web  lightly  holding  them  to 
gether  was  eternally  throwing  threads  around  her, 
keeping  her  from  the  one  thing  that  counted. 

"There!"  escaped  from  her  at  last,  breaking 
the  thread  and  throwing  the  dress  over  her  head. 
Her  mother  sauntered  over  to  fasten  it  for  her, 
pausing  to  note  how  the  dress  was  wearing  out, 
speaking  of  the  new  one  Euth  must  have  soon, 
and  who  should  make  it.  "Oh,  I'm  in  a  hurry, 


FIDELITY  75 

mother!"  Ruth  finally  cried  when  her  mother 
stopped  to  consider  how  the  dress  would  have  had 
more  style  if,  instead  of  buttoning  do.wn  the  back, 
it  had  fastened  under  that  fold. 

"Really,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Holland  remonstrated, 
jerking  the  dress  straight  with  a  touch  of  vexa 
tion,  "I  must  say  that  you  are  getting  positively 
peevish!" 

As  Ruth  did  not  reply,  and  the  mother  could 
feel  her  body  tightening,  she  went  on,  with  a  lov 
ing  little  pat  as  she  fastened  the  dress  over  the 
hip,  "  And  you  used  to  be  the  most  sweet-tempered 
girl  ever  lived." 

Still  Ruth  made  no  answer.  "Your  father  was 
saying  the  other  night  that  he  was  sure  you 
couldn't  be  feeling  well.  You  never  used  to  be  a 
bit  irritable,  he  said,  and  you  nearly  snapped  his 
head  off  when  he  wanted — just  to  save  you — to 
drive  you  over  to  Harriett's." 

Though  the  dress  was  all  fastened  now,  Ruth 
did  not  turn  toward  her  mother.  Mrs.  Holland 
added  gently :  * l  Now  that  wasn  't  reasonable,  was 
it?" 

The  tear  Ruth  had  been  trying  to  hold  back  fell 
to  the  handkerchief  she  was  selecting.  No,  it 
wouldn't  seem  reasonable,  of  course;  her  father 
had  wanted  to  help  her,  and  she  had  been  cross. 
It  was  all  because  she  couldn't  tell  him  the  truth 
— which  was  that  she  hadn't  told  him  the  truth, 
that  she  wasn't  going  to  Harriett's  for  an  hour, 


76  FIDELITY 

that  she  was  going  to  do  something  else  first. 
There  had  been  a  moment  of  actually  hating  her 
father  when,  in  wanting  to  help  her,  he  stepped 
in  the  way  of  a  thing  he  knew  nothing  about. 
That,  it  seemed,  was  what  happened  between 
people  when  things  could  not  be  told. 

Mrs.  Holland,  seeing  that  Euth's  hand  was  un 
steady,  went  on,  in  a  voice  meant  to  soothe : i  i  Just 
take  it  a  little  easier,  dear.  What  under  the  sun 
have  you  got  to  do  but  enjoy  yourself!  Don't 
get  in  such  a  flutter  about  it."  She  sighed  and 
murmured,  from  the  far  ground  of  experience: 
"Wait  till  you  have  a  real  worry." 

Euth  was  pinning  on  her  hat.  She  laughed  in 
a  jerky  little  way  and  said,  in  a  light  voice  that 
was  slightly  tremulous:  "I  did  get  a  little  fussed, 
didn't  I?  But  you  see  I  wanted  to  get  over  to 
Edith's  before  dinner  time.  She  wants  to  talk 
to  me  about  her  shower  for  Cora  Albright." 

"But  you  have  all  evening  to  talk  that  over, 
haven't  you?"  calmly  admonished  Mrs.  Holland. 

"Why,  of  course,"  Euth  answered,  a  little 
crisply,  starting  for  the  door. 

"Your  petticoat's  showing,"  her  mother  called 
to  her.  "Here,  I'll  pin  it  up  for  you." 

"Oh,  let  it  go!"  cried  Euth  desperately.  "I'll 
fix  it  at  Edith's,"  she  added  hurriedly. 

"Euth,  are  you  crazy?"  her  mother  demanded. 
"Going  through  the  streets  with  your  petticoat 


FIDELITY  77 

showing!     I  guess  you're  in  no  such  hurry  as 
that." 

It  was  while  she  was  pinning  up  the  skirt  that 
Mrs.  Holland  remarked : ' t  Oh,  I  very  nearly  forgot 
to  tell  you;  Deane's  going  over  there  for  you  to 
night.  " 

Then  to  the  mother's  utter  bewilderment  and 
consternation  Euth  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  and  burst  into  sobs. 

"Why,  my  dear/'  she  murmured;  "why,  Euth 
dear,  what  is  the  matter?" 

Euth  sank  down  on  the  bed,  leaning  her  head 
against  the  foot  of  it,  shaking  with  sobs.  Her 
mother  stood  over  her  murmuring,  "Why,  my 
dear,  what  is  the  matter?" 

Euth,  trying  to  stop  crying,  began  to  laugh. 
"I  didn't  know  he  was  coming!  I  was  so  sur 
prised.  We've  quarrelled!"  she  gulped  out  des 
perately. 

"Why,  he  was  just  as  natural  and  nice  as  could 
be  over  the  'phone,"  said  Mrs.  Holland,  pouring 
some  water  in  the  bowl  that  Euth  might  bathe  her 
eyes.  ' '  Eeally,  my  dear,  it  seems  to  me  you  make 
too  much  of  things.  He  wanted  to  come  here,  and 
when  I  told  him  you  were  going  to  be  at  Edith's, 
he  said  he'd  go  there.  I'm  sure  he  was  just  as 
nice  as  could  be. ' ' 

Euth  was  bathing  her  eyes,  her  body  still  quiver 
ing  a  little.  "Yes,  I  know,"  she  spluttered,  her 


78  FIDELITY 

face  in  the  water;  "he  is  that  way  when — after 
we've  quarrelled." 

"I  didn't  know  you  and  Deane  ever  did  quar 
rel,  ' '  ventured  Mrs.  Holland.  ' l  When  you  do,  I  '11 
warrant  it's  your  fault."  She  added,  signifi 
cantly:  "  Deane 's  mighty  good  to  you,  Euth." 
She  had  said  several  things  like  that  of  late. 

i  *  Oh,  he 's  good  enough, ' '  murmured  Euth  from 
the  folds  of  the  towel. 

"Now,  powder  up  a  little,  dear.  There!  And 
now  just  take  it  a  little  easy.  Why,  it's  not  a  bit 
like  you  to  be  so touchy. ' ' 

She  followed  Euth  downstairs.  "Got  that  let 
ter?"  the  grandfather  called  out  from  his  room. 

"I'll  send  Ted  with  it,  father,"  Mrs.  Holland 
said  hastily,  seeing  Euth's  face. 

A  sudden  surge  of  love  for  her  mother  almost 
swept  away  Euth's  self-command.  It  was  wonder 
ful  that  some  one  wanted  to  help  her.  It  made  her 
want  to  cry. 

Her  mother  went  with  her  to  the  porch.  "You 
look  so  nice,"  she  said  soothingly.  "Have  a  good 
time,  dearie." 

Euth  waved  her  hand  without  turning  her  face 
to  her  mother. 

Tears  were  right  there  close  all  through  that 
evening.  The  strain  within  was  so  great — (what 
was  she  going  to  do  about  Deane?) — that  there 
was  that  impulse  to  cry  at  the  slightest  friendli 
ness.  She  was  flushed  and  tired  when  she  reached 


FIDELITY  79 

Edith's,  and  Mrs.  Lawrence  herself  went  out  and 
got  her  a  glass  of  water — a  fan,  drew  up  a  com 
fortable  chair.  The  whole  house  seemed  so  kindly, 
so  favoring.  Contrasted  with  her  secret  turmoil 
the  reposefulness,  friendliness  of  the  place  was 
so  beautiful  to  her  that  taut  emotions  were  ready 
to  give.  Yet  all  the  while  there  was  that  inner 
distress  about  how  to  get  away,  what  to  say.  The 
affectionate  kindness  of  her  friends,  the  appeal  of 
their  well-ordered  lives  as  something  in  which  to 
rest,  simply  had  no  reach  into  the  thing  that  dom 
inated  her. 

And  now  finally  she  had  managed  it ;  Deane  had 
come  before  she  could  possibly  get  .away  but  she 
had  said  she  would  have  to  go  up  to  Harriett's, 
that  she  must  not  be  too  late  about  it.  Edith  had 
protested,  disappointed  at  her  leaving  so  early, 
wanting  to  know  if  she  couldn't  come  back.  That 
waved  down,  there  had  been  a  moment  of  fearing 
Edith  was  going  to  propose  going  with  her;  so 
she  had  quickly  spoken  of  there  being  something 
Harriett  wanted  to  talk  to  her  about.  She  had  a 
warm,  gentle  feeling  for  Edith  when  finally  she 
saw  the  way  clearing.  That  was  the  way  it  was, 
gratitude  to  one  who  had  moved  out  of  her  way 
gave  her  so  warm  a  feeling  that  often  she  would 
impulsively  propose  things  letting  her  in  for 
future  complications. 

As  she  was  saying  goodnight  there  was  another 
moment  of  wanting  terribly  to  cry.  They  were 


80  FIDELITY 

so  good  to  her,  so  loving — and  what  would  they 
think  if  they  knew  ?  Her  voice  was  curiously  gen 
tle  in  taking  leave  of  them;  there  was  pain  in 
that  feeling  of  something  that  removed  her  from 
these  friends  who  cared  for  her,  who  were  so  good 
to  her. 

She  asked  Deane  if  he  hadn't  something  else  to 
do  for  an  hour,  someone  to  run  in  and  see  while 
she  visited  with  Harriett.  When  he  readily  fell 
in  with  that,  saying  he  hadn't  been  to  the  Ben 
netts'  since  coming  home  and  that  it  would  be 
a  good  time  to  go  there,  she  grew  suddenly  gay, 
joking  with  him  in  a  half  tender  little  way,  a  sort 
of  affectionate  bantering  that  was  the  closest  they 
came  to  intimacy. 

And  then  at  the  very  last,  after  one  thing  and 
then  another  had  been  disposed  of,  and  just  as  her 
whole  being  was  fairly  singing  with  relief  and  an 
ticipation,  the  whole  thing  was  threatened  and 
there  was  another  of  those  moments  of  actually 
hating  one  who  was  dear  to  her. 

They  had  about  reached  the  corner  near  Har 
riett's  where  she  was  going  to  insist  Deane  leave 
her  for  the  Bennetts'  when  they  came  upon  her 
brother  Ted,  slouching  along,  whistling,  flipping 
in  his  hand  the  letter  he  was  taking  to  his  grand 
father's  old  friend. 

6 1 Hello,"  he  said,  " where  y'  goin'?" 

' ' Just  walking,"  said  Euth,  and  able  to  say  it 
with  a  carelessness  that  surprised  her. 


FIDELITY  81 

"Oil,"  said  Ted,  with  a  nonchalance  that  made 
her  want  to  scream  out  some  awful  thing  at  him, 
"thought  maybe  you  were  making  for  Harriett's. 
She  ain't  home." 

She  would  like  to  have  pushed  Mm  away !  She 
would  have  liked  to  push  him  way  off  somewhere ! 
She  dug  her  nails  down  into  her  palm;  she  could 
hardly  control  the  violent,  ugly  feeling  that  wanted 
to  leap  out  at  him — at  this  "kid  brother"  whom 
she  adored.  Why  need  he  have  said  just  that? — 
that  particular  thing,  of  all  things !  But  she  was 
saying  in  calm  elderly  sister  fashion,  "Don't  lose 
that  letter,  Ted,"  and  to  Deane,  as  they  walked  on, 
"Harriett's  at  a  neighbor's;  I'll  run  in  for  her; 
she's  expecting  me  to." 

But  it  left  her  weak;  her  legs  were  trembling, 
her  heart  pounding;  there  seemed  no  power  left 
at  the  center  of  her  for  holding  herself  in  one. 

And  now  she  was  rid  of  Deane !  She  had  shaken 
them  all  off;  for  that  little  time  she  was  free! 
She  hurried  toward  the  narrow  street  that  trailed 
off  into  the  country.  Stuart  would  be  waiting  for 
her  there.  Her  joy  in  that,  her  eagerness,  rushed 
past  the  dangers  all  around  her,  the  thing  that  pos 
sessed  her  avoiding  thought  of  the  disastrous  pos 
sibilities  around  her  as  a  man  in  a  boat  on  a  nar 
row  rushing  river  would  keep  clear  of  rocks 
jutting  out  on  either  side.  Sometimes  the  feeling 
that  swept  her  on  did  graze  the  risks  so  close  about 
her  and  she  shivered  a  little.  Suppose  Harriett 


82  FIDELITY 

were  at  the  Bennetts'  when  Deane  got  there! 
Suppose  Deane  said  something  when  they  got 
home;  suppose  Ted  said  something  that  wouldn't 
fit  in  with  what  Deane  said;  suppose  Deane  got 
to  Harriett's  too  soon — though  she  had  told  him 
not  to  be  there  till  after  half  past  nine.  Hadn't 
Deane  looked  queer  at  the  last?  Wouldn't  he 
suspect?  Wouldn't  everybody  suspect,  with  her 
acting  like  this?  And  once  there  was  the  slight 
est  suspecting.  .  .  . 

But  she  was  hurrying  on ;  none  of  those  worries, 
fears,  had  power  to  lay  any  real  hold  on  the  thing 
that  possessed  her ;  faster  and  faster  she  hurried ; 
she  had  turned  into  the  little  street,  had  passed 
the  last  house,  turned  the  bend  in  the  road,  and 
yes !  there  was  Stuart,  waiting  for  her,  coming  to 
her.  Everything  else  fell  away.  Nothing  else  in 
the  world  mattered. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

Ten  o'clock  found  Ruth  sitting  on  the  porch  at 
home  with  her  mother  and  father,  her  brother 
Cyrus  and  Deane.  Her  father  was  talking  with 
Deane  about  the  operation  that  had  been  per 
formed  on  the  book-keeper  in  Mr.  Holland's  bank; 
Cyrus  talked  of  somebody's  new  touring  car,  the 
number  of  new  machines  there  were  in  town  that 
year;  her  mother  wondered  where  some  of  the 
people  who  had  them  got  the  money  for  them. 
The  talk  moved  placidly  from  one  thing  to  another, 
Mr.  Holland  saying  at  intervals  that  he  must  be 
going  to  bed,  his  wife  slapping  at  the  mosquitoes 
and  talking  about  going  inside — both  delaying, 
comfortably  stupid. 

Ruth  was  sitting  on  the  top  step  leaning  back 
against  the  porch  pillar.  She  said  little,  she  was 
very  tired  now.  Something  in  this  dragging  talk 
soothed  her.  It  seemed  safe  just  because  it 
was  so  commonplace;  it  was  relaxing.  She  was 
glad  to  be  back  to  it — to  the  world  of  it ;  in  return 
ing  safely  to  it  she  felt  a  curiously  tender  feeling 
for  it,  a  perhaps  absurd  sense  of  having  come 
through  something  for  it.  She  could  rest  in  it 
while  within  herself  she  continued  to  live  back  in 

83 


84  FIDELITY 

that  hour  with  Stuart,  that  hour  which  struggle 
and  fear  and  the  passionate  determination  to  have 
in  spite  of  everything  had  made  terribly  intense. 
They  had  closed  themselves  in  with  that  little  while 
of  love,  holding  it  apart  from  everything  else,  and 
yet  every  minute  of  it  was  charged  with  the  con 
sciousness  of  what  was  all  around  them.  They 
had  clung  to  that  hour  with  a  desperate  passion, 
the  joy  of  the  moment  that  was  there  always^ 
stabbed  with  pain  for  a  moment  passing.  At  the 
last  they  had  clung  to  each  other  as  if  time  too — 
time,  over  which  they  had  no  control — was  going 
to  beat  them  apart.  So  much  had  been  hard  that 
in  returning  she  had  a  warm  feeling  of  gratitude 
to  all  of  them  for  not  making  it  harder  for  her, 
not  questioning,  exposing  her;  relief  was  so  great 
that  they  were  all  newly  dear  for  thus  letting  her 
alone.  She  had  managed  all  right  with  Deane, 
the  clumsy  arrangement  she  had  been  forced  into 
appeared  to  have  just  that  haphazardness  which 
characterizes  most  of  the  arrangements  of  life. 
Her  mother  had  merely  asked  what  the  Lawrence 's 
had  for  dinner;  her  father  joked  about  the  way 
she  had  trained  the  roses  in  the  back  yard. 
Strangely  enough  instead  of  feeling  she  had  out 
raged  them,  been  unworthy  this  easy,  affectionate 
intercourse,  she  had  a  sense,  now  that  she  had 
again  come  through  a  precarious  thing  safely,  of 
having  saved  them  from  something  they  knew  not 
of,  a  strange  lifted-up  feeling  of  bearing  some- 


FIDELITY  85 

thing  for  them.  Certainly  that  would  not  seem 
the  feeling  she  should  be  having,  but  there  was 
the  odd  part  of  it:  the  feelings  she  had  were  so 
seldom  those  she  would  expect  herself  to  have. 

Her  mother  and  father  had  gone  indoors; 
Cyrus  sat  out  there  with  her  and  Deane  for  a 
time.  Kuth  did  not  love  Cyrus  as  she  loved  Ted ; 
he  had  always  had  too  superior  a  manner  with 
her  for  her  feeling  to  be  more  than  the  perfunctory 
thing  which  sometimes  passes  for  personal  affec 
tion  in  families.  It  was  simply  that  she  had  never 
admitted,  even  to  herself,  that  she  did  not  love 
him.  He  belonged  to  the  set  just  older  than 
Buth's,  though  she  and  Deane  and  their  friends 
were  arriving  now  at  the  time  of  ceasing  to  be  a 
separate  entity  as  the  young  crowd  and  were  being 
merged  in  the  group  just  above  them.  That  con 
tributed  to  Cyrus's  condescension,  he  being  tem 
pered  for  condescension. 

When  she  and  Deane  were  alone  the  talk  lagged, 
Kuth  sitting  there  at  the  head  of  the  steps  leaning 
against  the  pillar,  he  a  few  steps  below  her, 
sprawled  out  in  awkward  boyish  fashion,  look 
ing  up  at  her  from  time  to  time  as  she  said  some 
thing.  Her  silence  did  not  make  him  feel  cut  off 
from  her;  the  things  she  said  were  gently  said; 
her  tired  smile  was  sweet.  He  spoke  several 
times  of  going,  but  lingered.  He  was  held  by 
something  in  Euth;  it  stirred  something  in  him, 
not  knowing  that  he  was  drawn  by  what  another 


86  FIDELITY 

man  had  brought  into  life.  He  drew  himself  up 
and  stole  timid  glances  at  Ruth  as  she  looked  out 
into  the  night,  feeling  something  new  in  her  to 
night,  something  that  touched  the  feeling  that  had 
all  the  time  been  there  in  him,  growing  as  he 
grew,  of  itself  waiting  for  the  future  as  simply 
and  naturally  as  all  maturing  things  wait  for  the 
future.  Euth  was  the  girl  he  had  all  the  time 
cared  for;  he  was  shy  about  emotional  things — 
awkward;  he  had  had  almost  no  emotional  life; 
he  had  all  the  time  been  diffident  about  what  she 
made  him  feel  and  so  they  had  just  gone  along 
for  a  little  time  longer  than  was  usual  as  boy  and 
girl.  But  something  sweet,  mysterious,  exhaling 
from  her  tonight  liberated  the  growing,  waiting 
feeling  in  him.  It  took  him  as  he  had  not  been 
taken  before;  he  watched  Euth  and  was  stilled, 
moved,  drawn. 

Finally,  as  if  suddenly  conscious  of  a  long 
silence,  she  turned  to  him  with  something  about 
the  plans  for  Cora  Albright's  wedding — she  was 
to  be  a  bridesmaid  and  he  an  usher.  She  went 
on  talking  of  the  man  Cora  was  to  marry,  a  man 
she  met  away  from  home  and  had  fallen  des 
perately  in  love  with.  He  associated  the  light  of 
her  face,  the  sweetness  of  her  voice,  with  the 
things  of  romance  of  which  she  talked.  All  in 
a  moment  his  feeling  for  her,  what  her  strange, 
softened  mood  touched  in  him,  leaped  up,  surg 
ing  through  him,  not  to  be  stayed.  He  moved 


FIDELITY  87 

nearer  her.  "You  know,  Buth,"  he  said,  in 
queer,  jerky  voice,  "/  love  you." 

She  gave  a  start,  drew  a  little  back  and  looked 
at  him  with  a  certain  startled  fixity  as  if  he  had 
stopped  all  else  in  her.  For  the  moment  she  just 
looked  at  him  like  that,  startled,  fixed. 

"Could  you  care  for  me  at  all,  Buth?"  he  asked 
wistfully,  and  with  a  bated  passionateness. 

And  then  she  moved,  and  it  seemed  that  feel 
ing,  too,  moved  in  her  again ;  there  was  a  flow  of 
emotions  as  she  sat  looking  at  him  now.  And 
then  her  strangely  shining  eyes  were  misty;  her 
face  quivered  a  little  and  very  slowly  she  shook 
her  head. 

"Don't  do  that,  Buth,"  he  said  quickly,  in  a 
voice  sharp  with  pain.  "Don't  do  that!  You 
don't  know — maybe  you  hadn't  thought  about  it 
— maybe — "  He  broke  off,  reached  out  for  her 
hands,  and  could  only  stammer,  "Oh,  Buth! — I 
love  you  so ! " 

He  had  her  hands ;  he  was  clutching  them  very 
tight ;  he  looked  up  at  her  again,  imploring.  She 
started  to  shake  her  head  again,  but  did  not  really 
do  it.  She  seemed  about  to  speak,  but  did  not. 
What  could  she  say  to  Deane — how  make  him 
understand? — unless  she  told  him.  She  thought 
of  the  years  she  had  known  him,  how  much  they 
had  been  together,  how  good  he  had  been  to  her. 
Again  her  eyes  were  misty.  It  was  all  so  tangled. 
There  was  so  much  pain. 


88  FIDELITY 

Feeling  her  softening,  her  tenderness,  he  moved 
nearer,  her  two  hands  pressed  together  so  tight 
in  his  that  it  hurt  her.  "It  wouldn't  be  so  bad, 
would  it,  Ruth!"  he  urged  wistfully,  with  a  little 
laugh  that  broke  with  emotion.  "You  and  I — 
mightn't  life  go  pretty  well  for  us?" 

She  turned  away,  looking  out  into  the  night. 
Feeling  something  in  her  that  he  did  not  under 
stand  he  let  her  hands  go.  She  put  one  of  them 
up,  still  further  averting  her  face,  lost  to  him  in 
the  picture  forming  itself  before  her  of  how  life 
would  be  if  love  came  right;  what  it  would  mean 
not  to  have  to  hide,  but  to  have  those  who  cared 
for  her  happy  in  her  happiness;  what  it  would 
mean  to  give  herself  to  love  without  fear,  to  wear 
her  joy  proudly  before  the  world,  revealing  her 
womanhood.  She  was  not  thinking  of  what  life 
with  Deane  would  be  but  of  what  love  that  could 
have  its  place  would  be:  telling  her  mother  and 
father  and  Edith,  being  able  to  show  the  pride 
of  being  loved,  the  triumph  of  loving.  Sitting 
there,  turning  her  face  from  this  friend  who  loved 
her,  she  seemed  to  be  turning  it  to  the  years  await 
ing  her,  years  of  desperately  clutching  at  happi 
ness  in  tension  and  fear,  not  understood  because 
unable  to  show  herself, — afraid,  harrassed,  per 
haps  disgraced.  She  wanted  to  take  her  place 
among  women  who  loved  and  were  loved!  She 
did  not  want  to  be  shut  away  from  her  friends, 
not  seeming  to  understand  what  she  understood 


FIDELITY  89 

so  well.  This  picture  of  what  life  would  be  if 
love  could  have  its  place  brought  home  to  her 
what  it  meant  to  love  and  perpetually  conceal, 
stealing  one's  happiness  from  the  society  in  which 
one  lived.  Why  could  it  not  have  gone  right  for 
her  too,  as  it  had  for  Cora  and  would  for  Edith? 
She  too  wanted  a  wedding,  she  too  wanted  rejoic 
ing  friends. 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  Her  body  was 
quivering. 

The  boy's  arm  stole  round  her  shoulders.  She 
was  feeling — maybe  she  did  care.  "Buth,"  he 
whispered,  "love  does  mean  something  to  you, 
doesn't  it?" 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him.  And 
that  look  was  a  thing  Deane  Franklin  never  for 
got;  all  the  years  did  not  blur  his  memory  of  it 
— that  flaming  claim  for  love  that  transformed 
her  face. 

And  then  it  was  lost  in  contrition,  for  she  saw 
what  he  had  seen,  and  what  he  hoped  from  that; 
in  her  compunction  for  having  let  him  see  what 
was  not  for  him,  the  tender,  sorrowing  look,  the 
impulsive  outreaching  of  her  hand,  there  was  the 
dawn  of  understanding. 

At  first  he  was  too  bewildered  to  find  words. 
Then:  "You  care  for  some  one  else?"  he  groped 
unbelievingly. 

She  looked  away,  but  nodded;  her  tears  were 
falling. 


90  FIDELITY 

He  moved  a  little  away  and  then  sat  there  quite 
still.  A  breeze  had  come  up  and  the  vines  beat 
against  the  porch,  making  a  sound  that  like  the 
flaming  look  of  a  moment  ago  he  never  forgot. 

She  knew  that  he  must  be  wondering;  he  knew 
her  life  there,  or  what  seemed  her  life.  He  must 
be  wondering  who  it  was  she  cared  for  like  that. 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm;  and  when  he 
turned  to  her  she  did  not  say  anything  at  all,  but 
the  appeal  that  looked  through  pain  perhaps  went 
where  words  could  not  have  gone. 

"But  you're  not  happy  I"  he  exclaimed,  in  a 
sort  of  harsh  exulting  in  that. 

She  shook  her  head;  her  eyes  were  brimming 
over. 

He  looked  away  from  her,  his  own  hurt  and 
surprise  rousing  a  savage  thing  in  him  that  did 
not  want  to  do  what  the  pleading  pain  of  her  eyes 
so  eloquently  asked  of  him.  He  had  always 
thought  that  he  was  to  have  Euth.  Well,  he  was 
not  to  have  her — there  were  ugly  things  which, 
in  that  first  moment,  surged  into  his  disappoint 
ment.  Some  one  else  was  to  have  her.  But  she 
was  not  happy!  Defeated  feeling  wrenched  its 
own  sorry  satisfaction  from  that. 

"Why  aren't  you  happy?"  he  asked  of  her  ab 
ruptly,  roughly. 

She  did  not  answer,  and  so  he  had  to  look  at 
her.  And  when  he  saw  Buth's  face  his  real  love 
for  her  broke  through  the  ugliness  of  thwarted 


FIDELITY  91 

passion.  "Can't  you  tell  me,  Kuth?"  lie  asked 
gently. 

She  shook  her  head,  but  the  concern  of  his  voice 
loosed  feeling  she  was  worn  out  with  holding  in. 
Her  eyes  were  streaming  now. 

His  arm  went  round  her  shoulder,  gently,  as 
if  it  would  shield,  help.  His  love  for  her 
wrenched  itself  free — for  that  moment,  at  least, 
— from  his  own  hurt.  "Maybe  I  can  help  you, 
Buth,"  he  was  murmuring. 


CHAPTEE  ELEVEN 

He  went  away  from  there  that  night  not  know 
ing  more  than  that;  it  was  merely  that  she  let 
him  see.  He  knew  now  that  there  was  some  big 
thing  in  her  life  he  had  known  nothing  about; 
that  he  had  not  understood  Euth,  though  he  had 
known  her  through  all  the  years  and  had  thought 
he  knew  her  so  well.  He  was  bewildered,  his  pain 
was  blunted  in  that  bewilderment.  There  was  a 
sick  sense  of  life  as  all  different,  but  he  was  too 
dazed  then  for  the  pain  that  came  later  with 
definite  knowing.  He  went  home  that  night  and 
because  he  could  not  sleep  tried  to  read  a  medical 
book ;  usually  that  took  all  his  mind,  for  the  time 
other  things  would  not  exist  for  him.  But  that 
was  not  true  tonight;  that  world  of  facts  could 
not  get  him;  he  lived  right  on  in  the  world  of 
his  own  feeling.  He  was  not  to  have  Euth;  he 
did  not  seem  able  to  get  a  real  sense  of  that 
either,  there  was  just  a  sick  feeling  about  it 
rather  than  actual  realization,  acceptance.  And 
what  did  it  mean!  Surely  he  knew  Euth's  life, 
the  people  she  went  with ;  it  was  always  he,  when 
he  was  at  home,  Euth  went  about  with.  Some 
one  away  from  home?  But  she  had  been  very 


FIDELITY  93 

little  away  from  home.  Who  could  it  be?  He 
went  over  and  over  that.  It  came  to  seem  un 
real;  as  if  there  were  some  misunderstanding, 
some  mistake.  And  yet,  that  look.  .  .  .  His  own 
disappointment  was  at  times  caught  up  into 
his  marvel  at  her;  that  moment's  revelation  of 
what  her  caring  could  be  was  so  wonderful  as  to 
bear  him  out  of  the  fact  that  it  was  not  for  him 
she  cared.  That  was  the  way  it  was  all  through, 
his  love  for  her  deepening  with  his  marvel  at  her, 
the  revelation  of  what  she  felt  for  another  man 
claiming  more  and  more  of  himself  for  her.  It 
was  a  thing  he  would  have  scoffed  at  if  told  of, 
it  was  a  thing  he  could  not  somehow  justify  even 
to  himself,  but  it  was  true  that  the  more  he  saw 
of  what  love  meant  to  Euth  the  more  Euth  came 
to  mean  to  him. 

In  those  next  few  months,  the  months  before 
he  actually  knew,  there  were  times  when  he  could 
almost  persuade  himself  that  there  was  some 
thing  unreal  about  it  all,  torturous  wonderings 
as  to  who  the  man  could  be  trailing  off  into  the 
possibility  of  there  being  no  man,  because  he  knew 
of  none;  sometimes  he  tried  to  persuade  himself 
that  this  passionate  feeling  he  had  glimpsed  in 
Euth  was  a  thing  apart  from  any  particular  man 
— for  who  was  the  man?  Sometimes  he  could, 
for  a  moment,  let  in  the  hope  that  since  she  could 
care  like  that  she  would  care  for  him.  Though 
he  more  than  half  knew  he  deluded  himself  in 


94  FIDELITY 

that;  there  was,  now  that  his  eyes  were  opened, 
that  in  Euth's  manner  to  indicate  something  in 
her  life  which  did  not  appear  on  the  surface.  He 
saw  how  nervous  she  was — how  strained  at  times, 
how  worried  and  cross,  which  was  not  like  Euth 
at  all.  There  were  times  when  her  eyes  were  im 
ploring,  times  when  they  were  afraid,  again  there 
were  moments  of  that  lovely  calm,  when  feeling 
deep  and  beautiful  radiated  from  her,  as  it 
had  that  night  they  sat  on  the  steps  and,  drawn 
by  something  in  her,  he  had  to  tell  her  that  he 
loved  her.  She  did  queer  unreasonable  things, 
would  become  exasperated  at  him  for  apparently 
nothing  at  all.  Once  when  she  had  told  him  she 
was  going  somewhere  with  her  mother  he  later 
saw  her  hurrying  by  alone ;  another  time  she  told 
him  she  was  going  to  Edith's,  and  when  he  called 
up  there,  wanting  to  take  them  both  with  him  for 
a  long  trip  he  had  to  make  into  the  country,  Edith 
said  Euth  had  not  been  there.  Thoughts  that  he 
did  not  like,  that  he  could  not  believe,  came  into 
his  mind.  He  was  not  only  unhappy,  but  he  grew 
more  and  more  worried  about  Euth. 

That  went  on  for  several  months,  and  then  one 
day  late  that  same  summer  she  came  to  him  with 
the  truth.  She  came  because  she  had  to  come. 
He  was  a  doctor ;  he  was  her  friend ;  she  was  in  a 
girl's  most  desperate  plight  and  she  had  no  one 
else  to  turn  to.  It  was  in  his  office  that  she  told 


FIDELITY  95 

him,  not  looking  at  him,  her  face  without  color 
and  drawn  out  of  shape,  her  voice  quick,  sharp, 
hard,  so  unlike  Euth's  sweet  voice  that  without 
seeing  her  he  would  not  have  known  it.  She 
threw  out  the  bare  facts  at  him  as  she  sat  there 
very  straight,  hands  gripped.  He  was  stupefied 
at  first,  but  it  was  fury  which  then  broke  through, 
the  fury  of  knowing  it  was  this,  that  not  only  was 
he  not  to  have  Euth,  but  that  another  man  had 
her,  the  fury  that  rose  out  of  the  driving  back  of 
all  those  loose  ends  of  hope  that  had  eased  pain 
a  little.  And  Ruth — this!  He  little  knew  what 
things  he  might  not  have  said  and  done  in  those 
first  moments  of  failing  her,  turning  on  her  be 
cause  he  himself  was  hurt  beyond  his  power  to 
bear.  And  then  Euth  spoke  to  him.  "But  I 
thought  you  believed  in  love,  Deane,"  she  said, 
quietly. 

"Love!"  he  brutally  flung  back  at  her. 

"Yes,  Deane,  love,"  she  said,  and  the  simpli 
city,  the  dignity  of  her  quiet  voice  commanded  him 
and  he  had  to  turn  from  himself  to  her.  She  was 
different  now ;  she  looked  at  him,  steadily,  proudly. 
Out  of  the  humiliation  of  her  situation  she  raised 
a  proud  face  for  love;  love  could  bring  her  dis 
grace,  it  could  not  strip  her  of  her  own  sense  of 
the  dignity  of  loving.  Her  power  was  in  that,  in 
that  claim  for  love  that  pain  and  humiliation  could 
not  beat  back. 


96  FIDELITY 

"I  notice  he's  not  here,"  he  sneered,  still  too 
overwhelmed  to  be  won  from  his  own  rage  to  her 
feeling. 

"I  thought  it  better  for  me  to  come,"  she  said 
simply,  and  as  she  said  it  and  he  remembered  her 
drawn,  wretched  face  in  telling  him,  he  was 
quieted  a  little  by  a  sense  of  what  it  had  cost  her 
to  come.  "Because,"  she  added,  " you're  my 
friend,  you  know." 

He  did  not  say  anything,  miserably  wondering 
what  she  now  thought  of  him  as  her  friend. 

"Oh,  Deane,"  she  broke  out,  "don't  be  hard! 
If  you  could  know  what  he's  suffering!  Being 
a  man — being  a  little  older — what 's  that  1  If  you 
can  understand  me,  Deane,  you've  got  to  under 
stand  him,  too!" 

He  stood  there  in  silence  looking  at  Euth  as, 
looking  away  from  him  now,  she  brooded  over 
that.  In  this  hour  of  her  own  humiliation  her 
appeal  was  for  the  man  who  had  brought  it  upon 
her.  "How  you  love  him!"  escaped  from  him, 
in  bitterness,  and  yet  marvelling. 

She  turned  to  him  then  in  her  swift  way,  again, 
as  on  that  night  of  his  first  seeing,  her  face  trans 
formed  by  that  flaming  claim  for  love;  it  was  as 
if  life  was  shining  triumphant  through  the  cloud 
of  misery  it  had  brought  down  around  her.  He 
could  not  rage  against  that  look ;  he  had  no  scorn 
for  it.  It  lighted  a  country  between  them  which 
words  could  not  have  undarkened.  They  came 


FIDELITY  97 

together  there  in  that  common  understanding  of 
the  power  and  beauty  of  love.  He  was  suddenly 
ashamed,  humbled,  feeling  in  her  love  a  quality 
upon  which  no  shameful  circumstance  could  en 
croach.  And  after  that  she  found  relief  in  words, 
the  words  she  had  had  to  deny  herself  so  long. 
It  was  as  if  she  found  it  wonderfully  good  to 
talk,  in  some  little  measure  linking  her  love,  as 
love  wants  to  link  itself,  with  the  other  people  of 
the  world,  coming  within  the  human  unit.  Things 
which  circumstances  had  prisoned  in  her  heart, 
too  intensified  by  solitude,  leaped  out  like  winged 
things  let  loose.  But  in  that  hour  of  talking  with 
him,  though  words  served  her  well,  it  was  that 
proud,  flaming  claim  for  love  which  again  and 
again  lighted  her  face  that  brought  him  into 
understanding,  winning  him  for  her  against  his 
own  love  of  her. 

In  the  year  which  followed,  that  last  year  be 
fore  circumstances  closed  in  too  tight  and  they 
went  away,  it  was  he  who  made  it  possible  for 
Euth  to  move  a  little  more  freely  in  the  trap  in 
which  she  found  herself.  He  helped  her  in  de 
ceiving  her  family  and  friends,  aided  them  in  the 
ugly  work  of  stealing  what  happiness  they  could 
from  the  society  in  which  they  lived.  He  did  not 
like  doing  it.  Neither  did  he  like  attending  the 
agonies  of  child-birth,  or  standing  impotently  at 
the  bed  of  the  dying.  It  might  seem  absurd,  in 
trying  to  explain  one's  self,  to  claim  for  this  love 


98  FIDELITY 

the  inevitability  of  the  beginning  and  the  end  of 
life,  and  yet,  seeing  it  as  he  saw  it  he  did  think 
of  it,  not  as  a  thing  that  should  or  should  not  be, 
but  as  a  thing  that  was;  not  as  life  should  or 
should  not  be  lived,  but  as  life.  This  much  he 
knew:  that  whatever  they  might  have  been  able 
to  do  at  the  first,  it  had  them  now.  They  were 
in  too  powerful  a  current  to  make  a  well  consid 
ered  retreat  to  shoals  of  safety.  No  matter  what 
her  mood  might  have  been  in  the  beginning,  no 
matter  what  she  could  have  done  about  it  then, 
Euth  was  mastered  not  master  now.  Love  had 
her — he  saw  that  too  well  to  reason  with  her. 
What  he  saw  of  the  way  all  other  people  mat 
tered  so  much  less  than  the  passion  which  claimed 
her  made  him  feel,  not  that  Euth  was  selfish,  but 
that  the  passion  was  mastering;  the  way  she  de 
ceived  made  him  feel,  not  that  she  was  deceitful, 
but  that  love  like  that  was  as  unable  to  be  held 
back  in  the  thought  of  wrong  to  others  as  in  the 
consideration  of  safety  for  one's  self;  the  two 
were  equally  inadequate  floodgates.  Not  that 
those  other  things  did  not  matter — he  knew  how 
they  did  make  her  suffer — but  that  this  one  thing 
mattered  overwhelmingly  more  was  what  he  felt 
in  Euth  in  those  days  when  she  would  be  thought 
to  be  with  him  and  would  be  with  Stuart  Williams. 
For  himself  that  was  a  year  of  misery.  He 
saw  Euth  in  a  peculiarly  intimate  way,  taken  as 
he  was  into  the  great  intimacy  of  her  life.  His 


FIDELITY  99 

love  for  her  deepened  with  his  knowing  of  her; 
and  anxiety  about  her  preyed  upon  him  all  the 
time,  passionate  resentment  that  it  should  have 
gone  like  that  for  her,  life  claiming  her  only,  as 
it  seemed,  to  destroy  her. 

He  never  admitted  to  himself  how  much  he 
really  came  to  like  Stuart  Williams.  There 
seemed  something  quixotic  in  that ;  it  did  not  seem 
natural  he  should  have  any  sympathy  with  this 
man  who  not  only  had  Euth's  love,  but  was  en 
dangering  her  whole  life.  Yet  the  truth  was  that 
as  time  went  on  he  not  only  came  to  like  him  but 
to  feel  a  growing  concern  for  him. 

For  the  man  changed  in  that  last  year,  It  was 
not  only  that  he  looked  older — harassed,  had 
grown  so  much  more  silent,  but  Deane  as  a  physi 
cian  noticed  that  he  was  losing  weight  and  there 
was  a  cough  that  often  made  him  look  at  him 
sharply.  A  number  of  times  Euth  said,  "I  don't 
think  Stuart's  well,"  but  she  looked  so  wretched 
in  saying  it  that  he  always  laughed  at  her.  The 
Williams'  were  not  patients  of  his,  so  he  felt  that 
professional  hesitance,  even  though  he  thought  it 
foolish  professionalism,  in  himself  approaching 
Stuart  about  his  health.  Once  when  he  seemed 
particularly  tired  and  nervous  Deane  did  venture 
to  suggest  a  little  lay-off  from  work,  a  change,  but 
Stuart  had  answered  irritably  that  he  couldn't 
stop  work,  and  didn't  want  to  go  away,  anyhow. 

It  was  almost  a  year  after  the  day  Euth  came 


100  FIDELITY 

to  him  steeled  for  telling  what  had  to  be  told  that 
the  man  of  whom  she  that  day  talked  came  to  tell 
him  what  he  had  been  suspecting,  that  he  had 
tuberculosis  and  would  have  to  take  that  lay-off 
Deane  had  been  hinting  at.  It  seemed  it  was 
either  go  away  or  die,  probably,  he  added,  with 
an  attempted  laugh,  it  was  go  away  and  die,  but 
better  go  away,  he  thought,  than  stay  there  and 
give  his  friends  an  exhibition  in  dying. 

They  talked  along  over  the  surface  of  it,  as  is 
people's  way,  Deane  speaking  mildly  of  tubercu 
losis,  how  prevalent,  how  easily  controlled,  how 
delightful  Arizona  was,  the  charms  of  living  out- 
of-doors,  and  all  the  time  each  of  them  knew  that 
the  other  was  not  thinking  of  that  at  all,  but  think 
ing  of  Euth. 

Finally,  bracing  himself  as  for  a  thing  that  was 
all  he  could  do,  Stuart  spoke  of  her.  "Buth  said 
she  was  coming  in  to  see  you  about  something  this 
afternoon.  I  thought  I'd  get  in  first  and  tell  you. 
I  wondered  what  you'd  think — what  we'd  better 
do—" 

His  voice  trailed  off  miserably.  He  turned  a 
little  away  and  sat  there  in  utter  dejection. 

And  as  he  looked  at  him  it  came  to  Deane  that 
love  could  be  the  most  ruthless,  most  terrible  thing 
in  the  world.  People  talked  to  him  afterwards 
about  this  man's  selfishness  in  taking  his  own 
pleasure,  his  own  happiness,  at  the  cost  of  every 
one  else.  He  said  little,  for  how  could  he  make 


FIDELITY  101 

real  to  anyone  else  his  own  feeling  about  what  he 
had  seen  of  the  man's  suffering,  utter  misery,  as 
he  spoke  of  the  girl  to  whom  he  must  bring  new 
pain.  Some  one  spoke  to  him  afterwards  of  this 
"light  love"  and  he  laughed  in  that  person's  face. 
He  knew  that  it  was  love  bathed  in  pain. 

A  new  sense  of  just  how  hideous  the  whole 
thing  was  made  him  suddenly  demand:  " Can't 
you — do  anything  about  it!  Isn't  there  any  way? 
— any  way  you  can  get  a  divorce?"  he  bluntly 
asked. 

"Mrs.  Williams  does  not  believe  in  divorce," 
was  the  answer,  spoken  with  more  bitterness  than 
Deane  had  ever  heard  in  any  voice  before. 

Deane  turned  away  with  a  little  exclamation  of 
rage,  rage  that  one  person  should  have  this  clutch 
on  the  life  of  another,  of  two  others — and  one  of 
them  Euth — sickened  with  a  sense  of  the  waste 
and  the  folly  of  it, — for  what  was  she  getting  out 
of 'it?  he  savagely  put  to  himself.  How  could  one 
get  anything  from  life  simply  by  holding  another 
from  it? 

"Does  she  know  anything  about  Euth?"  he 
asked  with  an  abrupt  turn  to  Stuart. 

"She  has  mentioned  her  name  several  times 
lately  and  looked  at  me  in  doing  it.  She  isn't  one 
to  speak  directly  of  things,"  he  added  with  a  more 
subtle  bitterness  than  that  of  a  moment  before. 
They  sat  there  for  a  couple  of  minutes  in  silence 
— a  helpless,  miserable  silence. 


102  FIDELITY 

When,  after  that,  Deane  stepped  out  into  the 
waiting-room  he  found  Euth  among  those  there; 
he  only  nodded  to  her  and  went  back  and  told 
Stuart  that  she  was  there.  "But  it's  only  three, " 
said  he  helplessly,  "and  she  said  she  was  coming 
at  four/ ' 

"Well,  I  suppose  she  came  earlier  than  she  in 
tended,"  Deane  replied,  about  as  helplessly,  and 
went  over  and  stood  looking  out  the  window. 
After  a  moment  he  turned.  "Better  get  it  over 
with,  hadn't  you?  She's  got  to  be  told,"  he  said, 
a  little  less  brusquely,  as  he  saw  the  man  wince, 
— "better  get  it  over  with." 

Stuart  was  silent,  head  down.  After  a  moment 
he  looked  up  at  Deane.  It  was  a  look  one  would 
turn  quickly  away  from.  Again  Deane  stood 
looking  from  the  window.  He  was  considering 
something,  considering  a  thing  that  would  be  very 
hard  to  do.  After  a  moment  he  again  abruptly 
turned  around.  "Well,  shall  I  do  it?"  he  asked 
quietly. 

The  man  nodded  in  a  wretched  gratefulness 
that  went  to  Deane 's  heart. 

So  he  called  Euth  in  from  the  waiting-room. 
He  always  remembered  just  how  Euth  looked  that 
day ;  she  had  on  a  blue  suit  and  a  hat  with  flowers 
on  it  that  was  very  becoming  to  her.  She  looked 
very  girlish;  he  had  a  sudden  sense  of  all  the 
years  he  had  known  her. 

The  smile  with  which  she  greeted  Deane  changed 


FIDELITY  103 

when  she  saw  Stuart  sitting  there;  the  instant's 
pleased  surprise  went  to  apprehension  at  sight  of 
his  face.  " What's  the  matter!"  she  asked 
sharply. 

" Stuart's  rather  bummed  up,  Euth,"  said 
Deane. 

Swiftly  she  moved  over  to  the  man  she  loved. 
'  '  What  is  it  ? "  she  demanded  in  quick,  frightened 
voice. 

"Oh,  just  a  bad  lung,"  Deane  continued,  not 
looking  at  them  and  speaking  with  that  false 
cheerfulness  so  hard  fought  for  and  of  so  little 
worth.  "Don't  amount  to  much — happens  often 
— but,  well — well,  you  see,  he  has  to  go  away — 
for  awhile." 

He  was  bending  over  his  desk,  fumbling  among 
some  papers.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  room 
and  at  last  he  looked  up.  Stuart  was  not  looking 
at  Ruth  and  Ruth  was  standing  there  very  still. 
When  she  spoke  her  voice  was  singularly  quiet. 
"When  shall  we  go?"  she  asked. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

Everyone  who  talked  about  it — and  that  meant 
all  who  knew  anything  about  it — blamed  Deane 
Franklin  for  not  stopping  Ruth.  Perhaps  the 
reason  he  did  not  try  to  defend  himself  was 
simply  that  he  could  not  hope  to  show  how  simple 
was  his  acceptance  of  the  fact  that  it  would  have 
been  impossible  to  stop  her.  To  understand  that, 
one  would  have  to  have  seen.  Oh,  to  be  sure,  he 
could  have  put  obstacles  in  her  way,  tightened 
it  around  her,  but  anything  he  might  have  done 
would  only  have  gone  to  making  it  harder  for 
Ruth  to  get  away;  it  would  not  have  kept  her 
from  going.  And  after  all,  he  himself  saw  it  as, 
if  not  the  thing  she  should  do,  the  thing — it  being 
what  it  was  then — she  could  not  help  doing.  But 
one  would  have  to  have  seen  Ruth's  face,  would 
need  to  have  been  with  her  in  those  days  to  under 
stand  that. 

As  to  warning  her  family,  as  he  was  so  blamed 
by  them  and  by  all  the  town  for  not  doing,  that 
would  have  seemed  to  him  just  one  of  those  things 
he  could  have  thrown  in  her  way.  He  did  feel 
that  he  must  try  to  talk  to  her  of  what  it  was 
going  to  mean  to  her  people;  he  saw  that  she 
saw,  that  it  had  cruel  power  to  make  her  suffer 

104 


FIDELITY  105 

— and  no  power  to  stop  her.  Nothing  could  have 
stopped  her;  she  was  like  a  maddened  thing — 
desperate,  ruthless,  indomitable.  She  would  have 
fought  the  world;  she  would  have  let  the  whole 
world  suffer.  Love's  fear  possessed  her  utterly. 
He  had  had  the  feeling  all  along  that  it  was  rush 
ing  on  to  disaster.  He  stood  back  from  it  now 
with  something  like  awe:  a  force  not  for  him  to 
control. 

And  he,  with  it  from  within,  was  the  only  one 
who  did  not  condemn  Stuart  Williams  for  letting 
Euth  go.  A  man,  and  older  than  she,  they 
scorned  him  for  letting  an  infatuated  girl  throw 
her  life  away  like  that.  And  it  was  not  only  that 
he  saw  that  the  man  was  sick  and  broken;  it  was 
that  he  saw  that  Stuart,  just  as  Euth,  had  gone 
in  love  beyond  his  power  to  control  love,  that  he 
was  mastered,  not  master,  now.  And  in  those 
last  days,  at  least,  it  was  Euth  who  dominated 
him.  There  was  something  terrible  in  the  sim 
plicity  with  which  she  saw  that  she  had  to  go; 
she  never  once  admitted  it  to  the  things  that  were 
to  be  argued  about.  He  talked  to  her,  they  both 
tried  to  talk  to  her,  about  the  danger  of  getting 
tuberculosis.  When  he  began  on  that  she  laughed 
in  his  face — and  he  could  not  blame  her.  As  if 
that  could  keep  her!  And  as  she  laughed  her 
tortured  eyes  seemed  mockingly  to  put  to  him — 
"What  difference  would  it  maker' 

When,  after  it  all  came  out,  he  did  not  join  the 


106  FIDELITY 

outraged  town  in  the  outcry  against  Euth,  when 
it  further  transpired  that  he  had  known  about  her 
going  and  had  not  tried  to  stop  it,  he  was  so 
much  blamed  that  it  even  hurt  his  practice.  There 
were  women  who  said  they  would  not  countenance 
a  young  physician  who  had  the  ideas  of  life  he 
must  have.  His  own  people  were  incensed  at 
what  they  called  the  shameful  advantage  Euth 
had  taken  of  him,  holding  that  she,  as  an  evil 
woman,  had  exerted  an  influence  over  him  that 
made  him  do  what  was  against  his  own  nature. 
As  to  the  Hollands,  there  had  been  a  stormy  hour 
with  Mr.  Holland  and  Cyrus,  and  a  far  worse  half 
hour  with  Mrs.  Holland,  when  her  utterly  stricken 
face  seemed  to  stiffen  in  his  throat  the  things  he 
wanted  to  say  for  Euth,  things  that  might  have 
helped  Euth's  mother.  And  then  he  was  told  that 
the  Hollands  were  through,  not  alone  with  Euth, 
but  with  him. 

But  he  was  called  there  two  years  later  when 
Mrs.  Holland  was  dying.  She  had  been  begging 
for  him.  That  moved  him  deeply  because  of  what 
in  itself  it  told  of  her  long  yearning  for  Euth. 
After  that  there  were  a  number  of  years  when  he 
was  not  inside  that  gate.  Cyrus  did  not  speak 
to  him  and  the  father  might  as  well  not  have  done 
so.  He  was  amazed,  then,  when  Mr.  Holland 
finally  came  to  him  about  his  own  health.  "I've 
come  to  you,  Deane,"  he  said,  "because  I  think 
you're  the  best  doctor  in  town  now — and  I  need 


FIDELITY  107 

help."  And  then  he  added,  and  after  that  first 
talk  this  was  the  closest  to  speaking  of  it  they 
ever  came :  "  And  I  guess  you  didn't  understand, 
Deane;  didn't  see  it  right.  You  were  young — 
and  you're  a  queer  one,  anyway. " 

Perhaps  the  reason  he  was  never  able  to  do  bet 
ter  in  explaining  himself,  or  in  defending  Euth, 
was  simply  because  in  his  own  thinking  about  it 
there  were  never  arguments,  or  thoughts  upon 
conduct,  but  always  just  that  memory  of  Buth's 
face  as  he  had  seen  it  in  revealing  moments. 

Everyone  saw  something  that  Euth  should  have 
done  differently.  In  the  weeks  they  spent  upon 
it  they  found,  if  not  that  they  would  be  able  to 
forgive  her,  at  least  that  they  could  think  of  her 
with  less  horror  had  she  done  this,  had  she  not 
done  that.  But  Euth  lived  through  that  week  see 
ing  little  beyond  the  one  thing  that  she  must  get 
through  it.  She  was  driven ;  she  had  to  go  ahead, 
bearing  things  somehow,  getting  through  them. 
She  had  a  strange  power  to  steel  herself,  to  keep 
things,  for  the  most  part,  from  really  getting 
through  to  her.  She  could  not  go  ahead  if  she 
began  letting  things  in.  She  sealed  herself  over 
and  drove  ahead  with  the  singleness  of  purpose, 
the  exclusions,  of  any  tormented  thing.  It  was 
all  terrible,  but  it  was  as  if  she  were  frozen  at  the 
heart  to  all  save  the  one  thing. 

She  stayed  through  the  week  because  it  was  the 
time  of  Edith  Lawrence 's  wedding  and  she  was  to 


108  FIDELITY 

be  maid-of -honor.  "I'll  have  to  stay  till  after 
Edith's  wedding,"  she  said  to  Deane  and  Stuart. 
Then  on  her  way  home  from  Deane 's  office  she 
saw  that  she  could  not  go  on  with  her  part  in 
Edith's  wedding.  That  she  could  see  clearly 
enough  despite  the  thing  driving  her  on  past 
things  she  should  be  seeing.  What  would  she  say 
to  Edith? — how  get  that  over? 

Someone  was  giving  a  party  for  Edith  that 
night ;  every  day  now  things  were  being  given  for 
her.  She  must  not  go  to  them.  How  could  she 
go?  It  would  be  absurd  to  expect  that  of  her 
self.  She  would  have  to  tell  Edith  that  she  could 
not  be  her  bridesmaid.  What  a  terrible  thing 
Edith  would  think  that  was !  She  would  have  to 
give  a  reason — a  big  reason.  What  would  she 
tell  her? — that  she  had  been  called  away? — but 
where?  Should  she  tell  her  the  truth?  Could 
she?  Edith  would  find  it  almost  unbelievable. 
It  was  almost  unbelievable  to  herself  that  her  life 
could  be  permeated  by  a  thing  Edith  knew  noth 
ing  about.  It  was  another  of  the  things  she  would 
have  said,  had  she  known  her  story  only  through 
hearing  it,  would  not  be  possible.  But  it  was  with 
Edith  as  it  was  with  her  own  family — simply  that 
such  a  thing  would  never  occur  to  her.  She 
winced  in  thinking  of  it  that  way.  A  number  of 
times  she  had  been  right  on  the  edge  of  a  thing 
it  seemed  would  surely  be  disclosing,  but  it 
strangely  happened  she  had  never  quite  gone  over 


FIDELITY  109 

that  edge.  For  one  thing,  Edith  had  been  away 
from  Freeport  a  good  deal  in  those  three  years. 
Mrs.  Lawrence  had  opposed  Edith's  marrying  so 
young,  and  had  taken  her  to  Europe  for  one  year, 
and  in  the  last  year  they  had  spent  part  of  the 
time  in  California.  In  the  last  couple  of  months, 
since  Edith's  return  from  the  "West,  she  had 
spoken  of  Buth's  not  seeming  like  herself r  of  fear 
ing  she  was  not  well.  She  had  several  times  hurt 
Edith's  feelings  by  refusing,  for  no  apparent 
reason,  to  do  things  with  her.  But  she  had  always 
been  able  to  make  that  up  afterwards  and  in  these 
plans  for  the  wedding  she  and  Edith  had  been 
drawn  close  again. 

When  she  went  over  to  the  Lawrences'  late  that 
afternoon  she  had  decided  that  she  would  tell 
Edith.  It  seemed  she  must.  She  could  not  hope 
to  tell  it  in  a  way  that  would  make  Edith  sympa 
thize.  There  was  not  time  for  that,  and  she  dared 
not  open  herself  to  it.  She  would  just  say  it 
briefly,  without  any  attempts  at  justifying  it. 
Something  like:  " Edith,  there's  been  something 
you  haven't  known.  I'm  not  like  you.  I'm  not 
what  you  think  I  am.  I  love  Stuart  Williams. 
We've  loved  each  other  for  a  long  time.  He's 
sick.  He's  got  to  go  away — and  I'm  going  with 
him.  Good-by,  Edith, — and  I  hope  the  wedding 
goes  just  beautifully." 

But  that  last  got  through — got  down  to  the  feel 
ing  she  had  been  trying  to  keep  closed,  the  feeling 


110  FIDELITY 

that  had  seemed  to  seal  itself  over  the  moment  she 
saw  that  she  must  go  with  Stuart.  "I  hope  the 
wedding  goes  just  beautifully  P '  Somehow  the 
stiff  little  phrase  seemed  to  mean  all  the  old 
things.  There  was  a  moment  when  she  knew: 
knew  that  she  was  walking  those  familiar  streets, 
that  she  would  not  be  walking  them  any  more; 
knew  that  she  was  going  over  to  Edith 's — that  all 
her  life  she  had  been  going  over  to  Edith's — that 
she  would  not  be  going  there  any  more ;  knew  that 
she  was  going  away  from  home,  that  she  loved 
her  father  and  mother — Ted — her  grandfather — 
and  Terror,  her  dog.  Eealization  broke  through 
and  flooded  her.  She  had  to  walk  around  a  num 
ber  of  blocks  before  she  dared  go  to  Edith's. 

Miss  Edith  was  up  in  her  room,  Emma,  the 
maid,  said,  taking  it  for  granted  that  Euth  would 
go  right  up.  Yes,  she  always  did  go  right  up,  she 
was  thinking.  She  had  always  been  absolutely  at 
home  at  the  Lawrences'.  They  always  wanted 
her ;  there  were  times  of  not  wanting  to  see  any 
one  else,  but  it  seemed  both  Edith  and  her  mother 
always  wanted  her.  She  paused  an  instant  on 
the  stairs,  not  able  to  push  past  that  thought,  not 
able  to  stay  the  loving  rush  of  gatefulness  that 
broke  out  of  the  thought  of  having  always  been 
wanted. 

She  had  a  confused  sense  of  Edith  as  barri 
caded  by  her  trousseau.  She  sat  behind  a  great 
pile  of  white  things ;  she  had  had  them  all  out  of 


FIDELITY  111 

her  chest  for  showing  to  some  of  her  mother's 
friends,  she  said,  and  her  mother  had  not  yet  put 
them  back.  Euth  stood  there  fingering  a  wonder 
fully  soft  chemise.  It  had  come  to  her  that  she 
was  not  provided  with  things  like  these.  What 
would  Edith  think  of  her,  going  away  without  the 
things  it  seemed  one  should  have!  It  seemed  to 
mark  the  setting  of  her  apart  from  Edith,  though 
there  was  a  wave  of  tenderness — she  tried  to  hold 
it  back  but  could  not — for  dear  Edith  because  she 
did  have  so  many  things  like  this. 

Edith  was  too  deep  in  the  occupation  of  getting 
married  to  mark  an  unusual  absorption  in  her 
friend.  She  was  full  of  talk  about  what  her 
mother's  friends  had  said  of  her  things,  the  pres 
ents  that  were  coming  in,  her  dress  for  the  party 
that  night,  the  flowers  for  the  wedding. 

It  made  Edith  seem  very  young  to  her.  And 
in  her  negligee,  her  hair  down,  she  looked  child 
ish.  Her  pleasure  in  the  plans  for  her  wedding 
seemed  like  a  child's  pleasure.  It  seemed  that 
hurting  her  in  it  would  be  horribly  like  spoiling 
a  child's  party.  Edith's  flushed  face,  her  spark 
ling  eyes,  her  little  excited,  happy  laugh  made  it 
impossible  for  Euth  to  speak  the  words  she  had 
come  to  say. 

For  three  days  it  went  on  like  that :  going  ahead 
with  the  festivities,  constantly  thinking  she  would 
tell  Edith  as  soon  as  they  got  home  from  this  place 
or  that,  waiting  until  this  or  that  person  had  gone, 


112  FIDELITY 

then  dumb  before  the  childish  quality  of  Edith's 
excitement,  deciding  to  wait  until  the  next  morn 
ing  because  Edith  was  either  too  happy  or  too 
tired  to  talk  to  her  that  night.  That  ingenuous 
ness  of  her  friend's  pleasure  in  her  wedding  made 
Euth  feel,  not  only  older,  but  removed  from  her 
by  experience.  Those  days  of  her  own  frozen 
misery  were  days  of  tenderness  for  Edith,  that 
tenderness  which  one  well  along  the  road  of  living 
feels  for  the  one  just  setting  feet  upon  the 
path. 

She  was  never  able  to  understand  how  she  did 
get  through  those  days.  It  was  an  almost  un 
believable  thing  that,  knowing,  she  was  able,  up 
to  the  very  last,  to  go  right  on  with  the  old  things, 
was  able  to  talk  to  people  as  if  nothing  were  differ 
ent,  to  laugh,  to  dance.  There  were  times  when 
something  seemed  frozen  in  her  heart  and  she 
could  go  on  doing  the  usual  things  mechanically, 
just  because  she  knew  so  well  how  to  do  them; 
then  there  were  other  times  when  every  smallest 
thing  was  stabbed  through  and  through  with  the 
consciousness  that  she  would  not  be  doing  it  again. 
And  yet  even  then,  she  could  go  on,  could  appear 
the  same.  They  were  days  of  a  terrible  power 
for  bearing  pain.  When  the  people  of  the  town 
looked  back  to  it,  recalling  everything  they  could 
about  Euth  Holland  in  those  days,  some  of  them, 
remembering  a  tenderness  in  her  manner  with 
Edith,  talked  of  what  a  hypocrite  she  was,  while 


FIDELITY  113 

others  satisfied  themselves  of  her  utter  heartless- 
ness  in  remembering  her  gaiety. 

It  was  two  days  before  the  wedding  when  she 
saw  that  she  was  not  going  to  be  able  to  tell  Edith 
and  got  the  idea  of  telling  Edith's  mother.  Re- 
fusing  to  let  herself  consider  what  she  would  say 
when  she  began  upon  it,  she  went  over  there  early 
that  morning — Edith  would  not  be  up. 

Mrs.  Lawrence  was  at  breakfast  alone.  Ruth 
kept  herself  hard  against  the  welcoming  smile,  but 
it  seemed  she  was  surely  going  to  cry  when,  with 
a  look  of  concern,  Mrs.  Lawrence  exclaimed: 
"Why,  Ruth  dear,  how  pale  you  are 1" 

She  was  telling  Emma  to  bring  Ruth  a  cup  of 
coffee,  talking  of  how  absurd  it  was  the  way  the 
girls  were  wearing  themselves  out,  how,  for  that 
reason,  she  would  be  glad  when  it  was  all  over. 
She  spoke  with  anxiety  of  how  nervous  Edith  had 
grown  in  the  past  week,  how  tired  she  was  as  a 
result  of  all  the  gaiety.  ""We'll  have  to  be  very 
careful  of  her,  Ruth,"  she  said.  "Don't  go  to 
Edith  with  any  worries,  will  you?  Come  to  me. 
The  slightest  thing  would  upset  Edith  now." 

Ruth  only  nodded;  she  did  not  know  what  to 
say  to  that ;  certainly,  after  that,  she  did  not  know 
how  to  say  the  things  she  had  come  to  tell.  For 
what  in  the  world  could  upset  Edith  so  much  as 
to  have  her  maid-of-honor,  her  life-long  friend, 
the  girl  she  cared  for  most,  refuse,  two  days  be 
fore  her  wedding,  to  take  her  part  in  it? 


114  FIDELITY 

"And  you  can  do  more  than  anyone  else,  Euth," 
Mrs.  Lawrence  urged.  "You  know  Edith  counts 
so  on  you/7  she  added  with  an  intimate  little 
smile. 

And  again  Euth  only  nodded,  and  bent  over  her 
coffee.  She  had  a  feeling  of  having  been  caught, 
of  being  helpless. 

Mrs.  Lawrence  was  talking  about  the  caterer 
for  the  wedding ;  she  wished  it  were  another  kind 
of  salad.  Then  she  wanted  Euth  to  come  up  and 
look  at  her  dress;  she  wasn't  at  all  satisfied  with 
the  touch  of  velvet  they  had  put  on  it.  After  that 
some  one  else  came  in  and  Mrs.  Lawrence  was 
called  away.  Euth  left  without  saying  what  she 
had  come  to  say.  She  knew  now  that  she  would 
not  say  it. 

She  went  home  seeing  that  she  must  go  through 
with  the  wedding.  It  was  too  late  now  to  do  any 
thing  else.  Edith  would  break  down — her  pleas 
ure  in  her  wedding  spoiled;  no,  Edith  must  be 
spared — helped.  She  must  do  this  for  Edith. 
No  matter  what  people  thought  of  her,  no  matter 
what  Edith  herself  thought — though  wouldn't  she 
understand?  Euth  considered  with  a  tortured 
wistfulness — the  thing  to  do  now  was  to  go 
through  with  it.  Edith  must  look  beautiful  at 
her  wedding;  her  happiness  must  be  unmarred. 
Later,  when  she  was  away  with  Will — happy — 
she  could  bear  it  better.  And  she  would  under 
stand  that  Euth  had  wished  to  spare  her;  had 


FIDELITY  115 

done  it  to  help  her.  She  held  that  thought  with 
her — and  drove  ahead. 

There  were  moments  in  those  last  two  days  at 
home  when  it  seemed  that  now  her  heart  was  in 
deed  breaking:  a  kindly  note  in  the  voice  of  her 
father  or  mother — one  of  Ted's  teasing  jokes — 
little  requests  from  her  grandfather;  then  doing 
things  she  had  done  for  years  and  knowing  while 
doing  them  that  she  would  not  be  doing  them  any 
more — the  last  time  she  cut  the  flowers,  and  then 
that  last  night  when  she  went  to  bed  in  her  own 
room,  the  room  she  had  had  ever  since  old  enough 
to  have  a  room  of  her  own.  She  lay  there  that 
night  and  listened  to  the  branches  of  the  great 
oak  tapping  the  house.  She  had  heard  that  sound 
all  her  life ;  it  was  associated  with  all  the  things 
of  her  life ;  it  seemed  to  be  speaking  for  all  those 
things — mourning  for  them.  But  the  closest  she 
came  to  actual  breaking  down  was  that  last  day 
when  her  dog,  laying  his  head  upon  her  knee, 
looked  with  trust  and  affection  up  into  her  eyes. 
As  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  head  his  eyes 
seemed  to  speak  for  all  the  love  she  had  known 
through  all  the  years.  It  seemed  she  could  not 
bear  it,  that  her  heart  could  not  bear  it;  that  she 
would  rather  die.  But  she  did  bear  it;  she  had 
that  terrible  power  for  bearing. 

If  only  she  had  told  her  mother,  they  said  over 
and  over  again.  But  if  she  told  her  mother  she 
would  not  go — that  was  how  she  saw  that;  they 


116  FIDELITY 

would  not  let  her;  or  rather,  she  would  have  no 
strength  left  to  light  through  their  efforts  to  keep 
her.  And  then  how  could  she  tell  her  mother 
when  her  mother  would  never  in  the  world  under 
stand?  She  did  not  believe  that  her  mother  could 
so  much  as  comprehend  that  she  could  love  where 
she  should  not,  that  a  girl  like  Euth — or  rather, 
Ruth — could  love  a  man  it  was  not  right  she  love. 
She  had  never  talked  with  her  mother  of  real 
things,  had  never  talked  with  her  of  the  things 
of  her  deepest  feeling.  She  would  not  know  how 
to  do  it  now,  even  had  she  dared. 

Her  mother  helped  her  dress  for  the  wedding, 
talking  all  the  while  about  plans  for  the  evening 
— just  who  was  going  to  the  church,  the  details 
about  serving.  Euth  clung  to  the  thought  that 
those  were  the  things  her  mother  was  interested 
in;  they  always  had  been,  surely  they  would  con 
tinue  to  be.  In  her  desperation  she  tried  to  think 
that  in  those  little  things  her  mother  cared  so 
much  about  she  would,  after  a  time,  find  healing. 

With  that  cruel  power  for  bearing  pain  she  got 
away  from  home  without  breaking  down ;  she  got 
through  that  last  minute  when  she  realized  she 
would  not  see  Ted  or  her  grandfather  again, — 
they  would  not  be  at  the  wedding  and  would  be  in 
bed  when  she  returned  from  it,  and  she  was  to 
leave  that  night  on  the  two  o'clock  train.  It  was 
unbelievable  to  her  that  she  had  borne  it,  but  she 
had  driven  ahead  through  utter  misery  as  they 


FIDELITY  117 

commented  on  her  dress,  praising  her  and  joking 
with  her.  That  was  in  the  living-room  and  she 
never  forgot  just  how  they  were  grouped — her 
grandfather's  newspaper  across  his  knees;  Mary, 
who  had  worked  for  them  for  years,  standing  at 
the  door;  her  dog  Terror  under  the  reading  table 
— Ted  walking  round  and  round  her.  Deane  was 
talking  with  her  father  in  the  hall.  Her  voice 
was  sharp  as  she  went  out  and  said:  "We  must 
hurry,  Deane." 

The  wedding  was  unreal;  it  seemed  that  all 
those  people  were  just  making  the  movements  of 
life;  there  were  moments  when  she  heard  them 
from  a  long  way  off,  saw  them  and  was  uncertain 
whether  they  were  there.  And  yet  she  could  go 
on  and  appear  about  the  same;  if  she  seemed  a 
little  queer  she  was  sure  it  was  attributed  to  nat 
ural  feeling  about  her  dearest  friend's  wedding 
— to  emotion,  excitement.  There  were  moments 
when  things  suddenly  became  real:  a  moment 
alone  with  Edith  in  her  room,  just  before  they 
went  to  the  church;  a  moment  when  Mrs.  Law 
rence  broke  down.  Walking  down  the  aisle,  the 
words  of  the  service — that  was  in  a  vague,  blurred 
world;  so  was  Edith's  strained  face  as  she  turned' 
away,  and  her  own  walking  down  the  aisle  with 
Deane,  turning  to  him  and  smiling  and  saying 
something  and  feeling  as  if  her  lips  were  frozen. 
Yet  for  three  hours  she  laughed  and  talked  with 
people.  Mrs.  Williams  was  at  the  reception ;  sev- 


118  FIDELITY 

eral  times  they  were  in  the  same  group.  Oh,  it 
was  all  unreal — terrible — just  a  thing  to  drive 
through.  There  was  a  moment  at  the  last  when 
Edith  clung  to  her,  and  when  it  seemed  that  she 
could  not  do  the  terrible  thing  she  was  going  to 
do,  that  she  was  not  going  to  do  it — that  the  whole 
thing  was  some  hideous  nightmare.  She  wanted 
to  stay  with  Edith.  She  wanted  to  be  like  Edith. 
She  felt  like  a  little  girl  then,  just  a  frightened 
little  girl  who  did  not  want  to  go  away  by  her 
self,  away  from  everything  she  knew,  from  people 
who  loved  her.  She  did  not  want  to  do  that  awful 
thing!  She  tried  to  pretend  for  a  moment  she 
was  not  going  to  do  it — just  as  sometimes  she 
used  to  hide  her  face  when  afraid. 

At  last  it  was  all  over;  she  had  gone  to  the 
train  and  seen  Edith  and  Will  off  for  the  East. 
Edith's  face  was  pressed  against  the  window  of 
the  Pullman  as  the  train  pulled  out.  It  was  Euth 
she  was  looking  for ;  it  was  to  Euth  her  eyes  clung 
until  the  train  drew  her  from  sight. 

Euth  stood  there  looking  after  the  train;  the 
rest  of  their  little  group  of  intimate  friends  had 
turned  away — laughing,  chattering,  getting  back 
in  the  carriages.  Deane  finally  touched  Euth's 
arm,  for  she  was  standing  in  that  same  place  look 
ing  after  the  train  which  had  now  passed  from 
sight.  When  he  saw  the  woe  of  her  wet  face  he 
said  gruffly:  "Hadn't  we  better  walk  home?" 
He  looked  down  at  her  delicate  slippers,  but  bet- 


FIDELITY  119 

ter  walk  in  them  than  join  the  others  looking  like 
that.  He  supposed  walking  would  not  be  good 
for  that  frail  dress ;  and  then  it  came  to  him,  and 
stabbed  him,  that  it  didn't  much  matter.  Prob 
ably  Euth  would  not  wear  that  dress  again. 

She  walked  home  without  speaking  to  him, 
looking  straight  ahead  in  that  manner  she  all 
along  had  of  ruthlessly  pressing  on  to  something ; 
her  face  now  was  as  if  it  were  frozen  in  suffer 
ing,  as  if  it  had  somehow  stiffened  in  that  moment 
of  woe  when  Edith's  face  was  drawn  from  her 
sight.  And  she  looked  so  tired! — so  spent,  so 
miserable;  as  if  she  ought  to  be  cared  for,  com 
forted.  He  took  her  arm,  protectingly,  yearn 
ingly.  He  longed  so  in  that  moment  to  keep  Euth, 
and  care  for  her!  He  wanted  to  say  things,  but 
he  seemed  to  be  struck  dumb,  appalled  by  what  it 
was  they  were  about  to  do.  He  held  her  arm  close 
to  him.  She  was  going  away !  Now  that  the  mo 
ment  had  come  he  did  not  know  how  he  was  going 
to  let  her  go.  And  looking  like  this! — suffering 
like  this — needing  help. 

But  he  must  not  fail  her  now  at  the  last ;  he  must 
not  fail  her  now  when  she  herself  was  so  worn, 
so  wretched,  was  bearing  so  much.  As  they 
turned  in  at  the  gate  he  fought  with  all  his 
strength  against  the  thought  that  they  would  not 
be  turning  in  at  that  gate  any  more  and  spoke  in 
matter  of  fact  tones  of  where  he  would  be  waiting 
for  her,  what  time  she  must  be  there.  But  when 


120  FIDELITY 

they  reached  the  steps  they  stood  there  for  a 
minute  under  the  big  tree,  there  where  they  had  so 
many  times  stood  through  a  number  of  years.  As 
they  stood  there  things  crowded  upon  them  hard ; 
Kuth  raised  her  face  and  looked  at  him  and  at  the 
anguish  of  her  swimming  eyes  his  hands  went  out 
to  her  arms.  " Don't  go,  Buth!"  he  whispered 
brokenly.  < ' Euth I— don't  go!" 

But  that  made  her  instantly  find  herself,  that 
found  the  fight  in  her,  to  strengthen  herself,  to 
resist  him ;  she  was  at  once  erect,  indomitable,  the 
purpose  that  no  misery  could  shake  gleamed 
through  her  wet  eyes.  Then  she  turned  and  went 
into  the  house.  Her  mother  called  out  to  her, 
sleepily  asking  if  she  could  get  out  of  her  dress 
by  herself.  She  answered  yes,  and  then  Mrs. 
Holland  asked  another  sleepy  question  about 
Edith.  Then  the  house  was  still;  she  knew  that 
they  were  all  asleep.  She  got  her  dress  off  and 
hung  it  carefully  in  the  closet.  She  had  already 
put  some  things  in  her  bag ;  she  put  in  a  few  more 
now,  all  the  while  sobbing  under  her  breath. 

She  took  off  her  slippers.  After  she  had  done 
that  she  stood  looking  at  her  bed.  She  saw  her 
nightgown  hanging  in  the  closet.  She  wanted  to 
put  on  her  nightgown  and  get  into  bed!  She 
leaned  against  the  bed,  crying.  She  wanted  to  put 
on  her  nightgown  and  get  into  bed!  She  was  so 
tired,  so  frightened,  so  worn  with  pain.  Then  she 
shook  herself,  steeled  again,  and  began  putting  on 


FIDELITY  121 

her  shoes;  put  on  her  suit,  her  hat,  got  out  her 
gloves.  And  then  at  the  very  last  she  had  to  do 
what  she  had  been  trying  to  make  herself  do  all 
that  day,  and  had  not  dared  begin  to  do.  She 
went  to  her  desk  and  holding  herself  tight,  very 
rapidly,  though  with  shaking  hand,  wrote  this 
note: 

"Dear  Mother;  I'm  going  away.  I  love  Stu 
art  Williams.  I  have  for  a  long  time.  Oh, 
mother — I'm  so  sorry — but  I  can't  help  it.  He's 
sick.  He  has  to  go  away,  so  you  see  I  have  to 
go  with  him.  It's  terrible  that  it  is  like  this. 
Mother,  try  to  believe  that  I  can't  help  it.  After 
I  get  away  I  can  write  to  you  more  about  it.  I 
can't  now.  It  will  be  terrible  for  you — for  you 
all.  Mother,  it's  been  terrible  for  me.  Oh,  try 
not  to  feel  any  worse  than  you  can  help.  People 
won't  blame  you.  I  wish  I  could  help  it.  I  wish 
— Can't  write  more  now.  Write  later.  I'm  so 
sorry — for  everybody.  So  good  to  me  always. 
I  love  all—  Euth." 

She  put  her  head  down  on  the  desk  and  cried. 
Finally  she  got  up  and  blindly  threw  the  note 
over  on  her  bed;  with  difficulty,  because  of  the 
shaking  of  her  hands,  put  on  her  gloves,  picked 
up  her  bag.  And  then  she  stood  there  for  a  mo 
ment  before  turning  off  the  light;  she  saw  her 
little  chair,  her  dressing-table.  She  reached  up 


122  FIDELITY 

and  turned  off  the  light  and  then  for  another  mo 
ment  stood  there  in  the  darkened  room.  She 
listened  to  the  branches  of  the  oak  tree  tapping 
against  the  house.  Then  she  softly  opened  her 
bed-room  door  and  carefully  closed  it  behind  her. 
She  could  hear  her  father's  breathing;  then 
Ted's,  as  she  passed  his  door.  On  the  stairs  she 
stood  still:  she  wanted  to  hear  Ted's  breathing 
again.  But  she  had  already  gone  where  she 
could  not  hear  Ted's  breathing.  Her  hand  on 
the  door,  she  stood  still.  There  was  something 
so  unreal  about  this,  so  preposterous — not  a  thing 
that  really  happened,  that  could  happen  to  her. 
It  seemed  that  in  just  a  minute  she  would  wake 
up  and  find  herself  safe  in  her  bed.  But  in  an 
other  minute  she  was  leaning  against  the  outside 
door  of  her  home,  crying.  She  seemed  to  have 
left  the  Euth  Holland  she  knew  behind  when  she 
finally  walked  down  the  steps  and  around  the  cor 
ner  where  Deane  was  waiting  for  her. 

They  spoke  scarcely  a  word  until  they  saw  the 
headlight  of  her  train.  And  then  she  drew  back, 
clinging  to  him.  "Euth!"  he  whispered,  holding 
her,  " don't!"  But  that  seemed  to  make  her 
know  that  she  must ;  she  straightened,  steeled  her 
self,  and  moved  toward  the  train.  A  moment 
later  she  was  on  the  platform,  looking  down  at 
him.  When  she  tried  to  smile  good-by,  he 
whirled  and  walked  blindly  away. 


FIDELITY  123 

She  did  not  look  from  the  window  as  long  as  the 
lights  of  the  town  were  to  be  seen.     She  sat  there 
perfectly  still,  hands  tight  together,  head  down. 
For  two  hours  she  scarcely  moved.     Such  strange      p> 
things     shot    through    her    mind.    Maybe    her 
mother,  thinking  she  was  tired,  would  not  go  to 
her  room  until  almost  noon.    At  least  she  would 
have  her  coffee  first.    Had  she  remembered  to  put 
Edith's  handkerchiefs  in  her  bag?    Had  anyone 
else  noticed  that  the  hook  at  the  waist  of  Edith's         T 
dress   had  come  unfastened?    Edith  was   on  a 
train  too — going  the  other  way.    How  strange  it 
all  was!    How  terrible  beyond  belief!    Just  as 
she  neared  the  junction  where  she  would  meet 
Stuart  and  from  which  they  would  take  the  train 
South  together,  the  thought  came  to  her  that  none 
of  the  rest  of  them  might  remember  always  to 
have  water  in  Terror's  drinking  pan.    When  she 
stepped  from  the  train  she  was  crying — because 
Terror  might  want  a  drink  and  wonder  why  she 
was  not  there  to  give  it  to  him.    He  would  not  un 
derstand — and  oh,  he  would  miss  her  so!    Even 
when  Stuart,  stepping  from  the  darkness  to  meet 
her,  drew  her  to  him,  brokenly  whispering  pas 
sionate,  grateful  words,  she  could  not  stop  crying 
— for  Terror,  who  would  not  understand,  and  who 
would  miss  her  so!    He  became  the  whole  world 
she    knew — loving,    needing    world,    world    that 
would  not  understand,  and  would  miss  her  so ! 


124  FIDELITY 

The  woman  who,  on  that  train  from  Denver, 
had  been  drawn  into  this  story  which  she  had  once 
lived  was  coming  now  into  familiar  country.  She 
would  be  home  within  an  hour.  She  had  some 
times  ridden  this  far  with  Deane  on  his  cases. 
Her  heart  began  to  beat  fast.  Why,  there  was  the 
very  grove  in  which  they  had  that  picnic!  She 
could  scarcely  control  the  excitement  she  felt  in 
beginning  to  find  old  things.  There  was  some 
thing  so  strange  in  the  old  things  having  remained 
there  just  the  same  when  she  had  passed  so  com 
pletely  away  from  them.  Seeing  things  she  knew 
brought  the  past  back  with  a  shock.  She  could 
hardly  get  her  breath  when  first  she  saw  the  town. 
And  there  was  the  Lawrences ' !  Somehow  it  was 
unbelievable.  She  did  not  hear  the  porter  speak 
ing  to  her  about  being  brushed  off ;  she  was  peer 
ing  hungrily  from  the  window,  looking  through 
tears  at  the  town  she  had  not  seen  since  she  left 
it  that  awful  night  eleven  years  before.  She  was 
trembling  as  she  stood  on  the  platform  waiting 
for  the  slowing  train  to  come  to  a  stop.  There 
was  a  moment  of  wanting  to  run  back  in  the  car, 
of  feeling  she  could  not  get  off. 

The  train  had  stopped;  the  porter  took  her  by 
the  arm,  thinking  by  her  faltering  that  she  was 
slipping.  She  took  her  bag  from  him  and  stood 
there,  turned  a  little  away  from  the  station  crowd. 

Ted  Holland  had  been  waiting  for  that  train, 
he  also  with  fast  beating  heart;  he  too  was  a  lit- 


FIDELITY  125 

tie  tremulous  as  he  hurried  down  to  the  car,  far 
in  the  rear,  from  which  passengers  were  alighting 
from  the  long  train.  He  scanned  the  faces  of  the 
people  who  began  passing  him.  No,  none  of  them 
was  Euth.  His  picture  of  Euth  was  clear,  though 
he  had  not  seen  her  for  eleven  years.  She  would 
be  looking  about  in  that  eager  way — that  swift, 
bright  way ;  when  she  saw  him  there  would  be  that 
glad  nodding  of  her  head,  her  face  all  lighting  up. 
Though  of  course,  he  told  himself,  she  would  be 
older,  probably  a  little  more — well,  dignified. 
The  romance  that  secretly  hung  about  Euth  for 
him  made  him  picture  her  as  unlike  other  women ; 
there  would  be  something  different  about  her,  he 
felt. 

The  woman  standing  there  half  turned  from 
him  was  oddly  familiar.  She  was  someone  he 
knew,  and  somehow  she  agitated  him.  He  did  not 
tell  himself  that  that  was  Euth — but  after  seeing 
her  he  was  not  looking  at  anyone  else  for  Euth. 
This  woman  was  not  " stylish  looking."  She  did 
not  have  the  smart  look  of  most  of  the  girls  of 
Euth's  old  crowd.  He  had  told  himself  that  Euth 
would  be  older — and  yet  it  was  not  a  woman  he 
had  pictured,  or  rather,  it  was  a  woman  who  had 
given  all  for  love,  not  a  woman  who  looked  as  if 
she  had  done  just  the  things  of  women.  This 
woman  stooped  a  little ;  care,  rather  than  romance, 
had  put  its  mark  upon  her ;  instead  of  the  secretly 
expected  glamour  of  those  years  of  love  there  had 


126  FIDELITY 

been  a  certain  settling  of  time.  He  knew  before 
he  acknowledged  it  that  it  was  Euth,  knew  it  by 
the  way  this  woman  made  him  feel.  He  came 
nearer;  she  had  timidly — not  with  the  expected 
old  swiftness — started  in  the  direction  he  was 
coming.  She  saw  him — knew  him — and  in  that 
rush  of  feeling  which  transformed  her  anything  of 
secret  disappointment  was  swept  from  him. 

He  kissed  her,  as  sheepishly  as  a  brother  would 
any  sister,  and  was  soon  covering  his  emotion 
with  a  practical  request  for  her  trunk  check.  But 
as  they  walked  away  the  boy's  heart  was  strangely 
warmed.  Euth  was  back! 

As  to  Euth,  she  did  not  speak.     She  could  not. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  Ruth  Holland's  return 
to  Freeport  that  Edith  Lawrence — now  Edith 
Lawrence  Blair — was  giving  the  tea  for  Deane 
Franklin's  bride  and  for  Cora  Albright,  introduc 
ing  Amy  to  the  society  of  the  town  and  giving 
Cora  another  opportunity  for  meeting  old  friends. 
"You  see  Cora  was  of  our  old  crowd,"  Edith  was 
laughingly  saying  to  one  of  the  older  women  in  in 
troducing  her  two  guests  of  honor,  "and  Amy  has 
married  into  it."  She  turned  to  Amy  with  a 
warm  little  smile  and  nod,  as  if  wanting  to  assure 
her  again  that  they  did  look  upon  her  as  one  of 
them. 

They  had  indeed  given  her  that  sense  of  being 
made  one  of  them.  Their  quick,  warm  acceptance 
of  her  made  them  seem  a  wonderfully  kindly  peo 
ple.  Her  heart  warmed  to  them  because  of  this 
going  out  to  her,  a  stranger.  That  informality 
and  friendliness  which  in  a  society  like  theirs  pre 
vails  well  within  the  bounds  made  them  seem  to 
her  a  people  of  real  warmth.  She  was  pleased 
with  the  thought  of  living  among  them,  being  one 
of  them ;  gratified,  not  only  in  the  way  they  seemed 
to  like  her,  but  by  the  place  they  gave  her.  There 
were  happy  little  anticipations  of  the  life  just 

127 


128  FIDELITY 

opening  up.  She  was  flushed  with  pleasure  and 
gratification. 

She  was  seeing  the  society  of  the  town  at  its  best 
that  afternoon;  the  women  who  constituted  that 
society  were  there,  and  at  their  best.  For  some 
reason  they  always  were  at  their  best  at  the  Law 
rences',  as  if  living  up  to  the  house  itself,  which 
was  not  only  one  of  the  most  imposing  of  the  homes 
of  that  rich  little  middle-western  city,  but  had  an 
atmosphere  which  other  houses,  outwardly  equally 
attractive,  lacked.  Mrs.  Lawrence  had  taste  and 
hospitality;  the  two  qualities  breathed  through  her 
house.  She  and  Edith  were  Freeport's  most  suc 
cessful  hostesses.  The  society  of  that  town  was 
like  the  particular  thing  known  as  society  in  other 
towns;  not  distinguished  by  any  unique  thing  so 
much  as  by  its  likeness  to  the  thing  in  general. 
Amy,  knowing  society  in  other  places,  in  a  larger 
place,  was  a  little  surprised  and  much  pleased  at 
what  she  recognized. 

And  she  felt  that  people  were  liking  her,  admir 
ing  her,  and  that  always  put  her  at  her  best. 
Sometimes  Amy's  poise,  rare  in  one  so  young, 
made  her  seem  aloof,  not  cordial,  and  she  had  not 
been  one  to  make  friends  quickly.  Edith's  friend 
liness  had  broken  through  that;  she  talked  more 
than  was  usual  with  her — was  gayer,  more 
friendly.  "  You  're  making  a  great  hit,  my  dear," 
Edith  whispered  to  her  gayly,  and  Amy  flushed 


FIDELITY  129 

with  pleasure.  People  about  the  room  were  talk 
ing  of  how  charming  she  was;  of  there  being 
something  unusual  in  that  combination  of  girlish- 
ness  and — they  called  it  distinction ;  had  Amy  been 
in  different  mood  they  might  have  spoken  of  it  less 
sympathetically  as  an  apparent  feeling  of  superi 
ority.  But  she  felt  that  she  was  with  what  she 
called  her  own  sort,  and  she  was  warmed  in  grati 
fication  by  the  place  given  herself. 

She  was  gayly  telling  a  little  group  of  an  amus 
ing  thing  that  had  happened  at  her  wedding  when 
she  overheard  someone  saying  to  Edith,  by  whom 
she  was  standing:  "Yes,  on  the  two  o'clock  train. 
I  was  down  to  see  Helen  off,  and  saw  her  myself — 
walking  away  with  Ted. " 

Amy  noticed  that  the  other  women,  who  also  had 
overheard,  were  only  politely  appearing  to  be  list 
ening  to  her  now,  and  were  really  discreetly  trying 
to  hear  what  these  two  were  saying.  She  brought 
her  story  to  a  close. 

"You  mean  Euth  Holland?"  one  of  the  women 
asked,  and  the  two  groups  became  one. 
•  Amy  drew  herself  up;  her  head  went  a  little 
higher,  her  lips  tightened ;  then,  conscious  of  that, 
she  relaxed  and  stood  a  little  apart,  seeming  only 
to  be  courteously  listening  to  a  thing  in  which  she 
had  no  part.  They  talked  in  lowered  tones  of  how 
strange  it  seemed  to  feel  Euth  was  back  in  that 
town.  They  had  a  different  manner  now — a  sort 


130  FIDELITY 

of  carefully  restrained  avidity.  "How  does  she 
look?"  one  of  the  women  asked  in  that  lowered 
tone. 

"Well,"  said  the  woman  who  had  been  at  the 
train,  "she  hasn't  kept  herself  up.  Keally,  I  was 
surprised.  You'd  think  a  woman  in  her  position 
would  make  a  particular  effort  to — to  make  the 
most  of  herself,  now,  wouldn't  you!  What  else 
has  she  to  go  on?  But  really,  she  wasn't  at  all 
good  style,  and  sort  of — oh,  as  if  she  had  let 
herself  go,  I  thought.  Though," — she  turned 
to  Edith  in  saying  this — "there's  that  same  old 
thing  about  her ;  I  saw  her  smile  up  at  Ted  as  they 
walked  away — and  she  seemed  all  different  then. 
You  know  how  it  always  used  to  be  with  Euth — so 
different  from  one  minute  to  another." 

Edith  turned  away,  rather  abruptly,  and  joined 
another  group.  Amy  could  not  make  out  her 
look ;  it  seemed — why  it  seemed  pain ;  as  if  it  hurt 
her  to  hear  what  they  were  saying.  Could  it  be 
that  she  still  cared? — after  the  way  she  had  been 
treated?  That  seemed  impossible,  even  in  one 
who  had  the  sweet  nature  Mrs.  Blair  certainly 
had. 

While  the  women  about  her  were  still  talking  of 
Euth  Holland,  Amy  saw  Stuart  Williams'  wife 
come  out  of  the  dining  room  and  stand  there  alone 
for  a  minute  looking  about  the  room.  It  gave  her 
a  shock.  The  whole  thing  seemed  so  terrible,  so 
fascinatingly  terrible.  And  it  seemed  unreal;  as 


FIDELITY  131 

a  thing  one  might  read  or  hear  about,  but  not  the 
sort  of  thing  one 's  own  life  would  come  anywhere 
near.  Mrs.  Williams'  eyes  rested  on  their  little 
group  and  Amy  had  a  feeling  that  somehow  she 
knew  what  they  were  talking  about.  As  her  eyes 
followed  the  other  woman's  about  the  room  she 
saw  that  there  were  several  groups  in  which  people 
were  drawn  a  little  closer  together  and  appeared 
to  be  speaking  a  little  more  intimately  than  was 
usual  upon  such  an  occasion.  She  felt  that  Mrs. 
Williams'  face  became  more  impassive.  A  mo 
ment  later  she  had  come  over  to  Amy  and  was 
holding  out  her  hand.  There  seemed  to  Amy 
something  very  brave  about  her,  dignified,  fine,  in 
the  way  she  went  right  on,  bearing  it,  holding  her 
own  place,  keeping  silence.  She  watched  her  leave 
the  room  with  a  new  sense  of  outrage  against  that 
terrible  woman — that  woman  Deane  stood  up  for! 
The  resentment  which  in  the  past  week  she  had 
been  trying  to  put  down  leaped  to  new  life. 

The  women  around  her  resumed  their  talk:  of 
Mrs.  Williams,  the  Holland  family,  of  the  night  of 
Edith's  wedding  when — in  that  very  house — Ruth 
Holland  had  been  there  up  to  the  very  last  minute, 
taking  her  place  with  the  rest  of  them.  They 
spoke  of  her  betrayal  of  Edith,  her  deception  of  all 
her  friends,  of  how  she  was  the  very  last  girl  in 
the  world  they  would  have  believed  it  of. 

A  little  later,  when  she  and  Edith  were  talking 
with  some  other  guests,  Euth  Holland  was  men- 


132  FIDELITY 

tioned  again.  "I  don't  want  to  talk  of  Ruth," 
Edith  said  that  time;  "I'd  rather  not."  There 
was  a  catch  in  her  voice  and  one  of  the  women  im 
pulsively  touched  her  arm.  "It  was  so  terrible 
for  you,  dear  Edith,"  she  murmured. 

"Sometimes,"  said  Edith,  "it  comes  home  to  me 
that  it  was  pretty  terrible  for  Ruth."  Again  she 
turned  away,  leaving  an  instant's  pause  behind 
her.  Then  one  of  the  women  said,  "I  think  it's 
simply  wonderful  that  Edith  can  have  anything 
but  bitterness  in  her  heart  for  Ruth  Holland! 
Why  there's  not  another  person  in  town — oh,  ex 
cept  Deane  Franklin,  of  course — " 

She  caught  herself,  reddened,  then  turned  to 
Amy  with  a  quick  smile.  "And  it's  just  his  sym 
pathetic  nature,  isn't  it?  That's  exactly  Deane — 
taking  the  part  of  one  who 's  down. ' ' 

"And  then,  too,  men  feel  differently  about  those 
things,"  murmured  another  one  of  the  young  ma 
trons  of  Deane 's  crowd. 

Their  manner  of  seeming  anxious  to  smooth 
something  over,  to  get  out  of  a  difficult  situation, 
enraged  Amy,  not  so  much  against  them  as  because 
of  there  being  something  that  needed  smoothing 
over,  because  Deane  had  put  himself  and  her  in  a 
situation  that  was  difficult.  How  did  it  look? — 
what  must  people  think? — his  standing  up  for  a 
woman  the  whole  town  had  turned  against!  But 
she  was  saying  with  what  seemed  a  sweet  gravity, 
"I'm  sure  Deane  would  be  sorry  for  any  woman 


FIDELITY  133 

who  had  been  so — unfortunate.  And  she,"  she 
added  bravely,  "was  a  dear  old  friend,  was  she 
not?" 

The  woman  who  had  commiserated  with  Edith 
now  nodded  approval  at  Amy.  ' '  You  're  sweet,  my 
dear,"  she  said,  and  the  benign  looks  of  them  all 
made  her  feel  there  was  something  for  her  to  be 
magnanimous  about,  something  queer.  Her  re 
sentment  intensified  because  of  having  to  give  that 
impression  of  a  sweet  spirit.  And  so  people  talked 
about  Deane  's  standing  up  for  this  Euth  Holland ! 
Why  did  they  talk? — just  what  did  they  say? 
"There's  more  to  it  than  I  know,"  suspicion 
whispered.  In  that  last  half  hour  it  was  hard  to 
appear  gracious  and  interested ;  she  saw  a  number 
of  those  little  groups  in  which  voices  were  low  and 
faces  were  trying  not  to  appear  eager. 

She  wished  she  knew  what  they  were  saying ;  she 
had  an  intense  desire  to  hear  more  about  this  thing 
which  she  so  resented,  which  was  so  roiling  to  her. 
It  fascinated  as  well  as  galled  her ;  she  wanted  to 
know  just  how  this  Euth  Holland  looked,  how  she 
had  looked  that  night  of  the  wedding,  what  she  had 
said  and  done.  The  fact  of  being  in  the  very  house 
where  Euth  Holland  had  been  that  last  night  she 
was  with  her  friends  seemed  to  bring  close  some 
thing  mysterious,  terrible,  stirring  imagination 
and  curiosity.  Had  she  been  with  Deane  that 
night?  Had  he  taken  her  to  the  wedding? — taken 
her  home?  She  hardened  to  him  in  the  thought  of 


134  FIDELITY 

there  being  this  thing  she  did  not  know  about.  It 
began  to  seem  he  had  done  her  a  great  wrong  in  not 
preparing  her  for  a  thing  that  could  bring  her  em 
barrassment.  Everyone  else  knew  about  it! 
Coming  there  a  bride,  and  the  very  first  thing  en 
countering  something  awkward!  She  persuaded 
herself  that  her  pleasure  in  this  party,  in  this 
opening  up  of  her  life  there,  was  spoiled,  that 
Deane  had  spoiled  it.  And  she  tormented  herself 
with  a  hundred  little  wonderings. 

She  and  Cora  Albright  went  home  together  in 
Edith's  brougham.  Cora  was  full  of  talk  of  Euth 
Holland,  this  new  development,  Ruth's  return, 
stirring  it  all  up  again  for  her.  Amy's  few  dis 
creet  questions  brought  forth  a  great  deal  that 
she  wanted  to  know.  Cora  had  a  worldly  manner, 
and  that  vague  sympathy  with  evil  that  poetizes 
one's  self  without  doing  anything  so  definite  as 
condoning,  or  helping,  the  sinner. 

"I  do  think,"  she  said,  with  a  little  shrug,  "that 
the  town  has  been  pretty  hard  about  it.  But  then 
you  know  what  these  middle-western  towns  are." 
Amy,  at  this  appeal  to  her  sophistication,  gravely 
nodded.  "I  do  feel  sorry  for  Ruth,"  Cora  added 
in  a  more  personal  tone. 

"Will  you  go  to  see  her?"  Amy  asked,  rather 
pointedly. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  do  that,"  replied  Cora.  "My 
family — you  know, — or  perhaps  you  don't  know, 
I'm  related  to  Mrs.  Williams,"  she  laughed. 


FIDELITY  135 

Amy  ejaculated,  aghast,  and  newly  fas 
cinated  by  the  horror,  what  somehow  seemed  the 
impossibleness  of  the  whole  thing — that  she  should 
be  talking  of  Euth  Holland  to  a  woman  related  to 
Mrs.  Williams! 

"I  suppose  she,  felt  terribly, "  Amy  murmured. 

Cora  laughed  a  little.  "Oh,  I  don't  know.  It 
never  seemed  to  me  that  Marion  would  do  much 
feeling.  Feeling  is  so — ruffling." 

"She  looks,"  said  Amy,  a  little  aggressively, 
"as  though  she  might  not  show  all  she  feels." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  not,"  Cora  agreed  pleasantly. 
"Perhaps  I  do  Marion  an  injustice.  She  may 
have  suffered  in  silence.  Certainly  she's  kept  si 
lence.  Truth  is,  I  never  liked  her  so  very  well.  I 
like  Euth  much  the  better  of  the  two.  I  like 
warmth — feeling. ' ' 

She  was  leaning  forward  and  looking  from  the 
window.  "That's  the  Hollands',"  she  said. 
And  under  her  breath,  compassionately,  she  mur 
mured,  "Poor  Euth!" 

"I  should  think  you  would  go  and  see  her,"  said 
Amy,  curiously  resentful  of  this  feeling. 

With  a  little  sigh  Cora  leaned  back  in  the  lux 
urious  corner.  "We're  not  free  to  do  what  we 
might  like  to  do  in  this  life,"  she  said,  looking 
gravely  at  Amy  and  speaking  as  one  actuated  by 
something  larger  than  personal  feeling.  "Too 
many  people  are  associated  with  me  for  me  to  go 
and  see  Euth — as,  for  my  own  part,  I'd  gladly  do. 


136  FIDELITY 

You  see  it's  even  closer  than  being  related  to 
Marion.  Cyrus  Holland, — Buth's  brother — mar 
ried  into  my  family  too.  Funny,  isn't  it?"  she 
laughed  at  Amy's  stare.  "Yes,  Cyrus  Holland 
married  a  second  cousin  of  Stuart  Williams' 
wife." 

"Why — "  gasped  Amy,  "it's  positively  weird, 
isn't  it?" 

"Things  are  pretty  much  mixed  up  in  this 
world,"  Cora  went  on,  speaking  with  that  good- 
natured  sophistication  which  appealed  to  Amy  as 
worldly.  "I  think  one  reason  Cy  was  so  bitter 
against  Euth,  and  kept  the  whole  family  so,  was 
the  way  it  broke  into  his  own  plans.  He  was  in 
love  with  Louise  at  the  time  Euth  left;  of  course 
all  her  kith  and  kin — being  also  Marion's — were 
determined  she  should  not  marry  a  Holland.  Cy 
thought  he  had  lost  her,  but  after  a  time,  as  long 
as  no  one  was  quite  so  bitter  against  Euth  as  he, 
the  opposition  broke  down  a  little — enough  for 
Louise  to  ride  over  it.  Oh,  yes,  in  these  small 
towns  everybody's  somehow  mixed  up  with  every 
one  else,"  she  laughed.  "And  of  course,"  she 
went  on  more  gravely,  '  '  that  is  where  it  is  hard  to 
answer  the  people  who  seem  so  hard  about  Euth. 
It  isn't  just  one's  self,  or  even  just  one's  family 
— though  it  broke  them  pretty  completely,  you 
know;  but  a  thing  like  that  reaches  out  into  so 
many  places — hurts  so  many  lives." 

"Yes,"  said  Amy,  "it  does."     She  was  think- 


FIDELITY  137 

ing  of  her  own  life,  of  how  it  was  clouding  her 
happiness. 

"One  has  to  admit, "  said  Cora,  in  the  tone  of 
summing  it  all  up,  "that  just  taking  one's  own 
happiness  is  thorough  selfishness.  Society  as  a 
whole  is  greater  than  the  individual,  isn't  it!" 

That  seemed  to  Amy  the  heart  of  it.  She  felt 
herself  as  one  within  society,  herself  faithful  to 
it  and  guarding  it  against  all  who  would  do  it 
harm ;  hard  to  the  traitor,  not  because  of  any  per 
sonal  feeling — she  wished  to  make  that  clear  to 
herself — but  because  society  as  a  whole  demanded 
that  hardness.  After  she  had  bade  Cora  good-by 
and  as  she  was  about  to  open  the  door  of  the  house 
Deane  had  prepared  for  her,  she  told  herself  that 
it  was  a  matter  of  taking  the  larger  view.  She 
was  pleased  with  the  phrase;  it  seemed  to  clear 
her  own  feeling  of  any  possible  charge  of  small- 
ness. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

Despite  the  fact  that  he  knew  he  was  going  to  be 
late  getting  home  for  dinner,  Dr.  Franklin  was 
sending  his  car  very  slowly  along  the  twelve-mile 
stretch  of  road  that  lay  between  him  and  home. 
This  was  not  so  much  because  it  was  beautiful 
country  through  which  he  went,  and  the  spring 
freshness  in  the  softness  of  late  afternoon  was 
grateful  to  him,  nor  because  too  tired  for  any  kind 
of  hurrying,  as  it  was  that  he  did  not  want  to 
cover  those  twelve  miles  before  he  had  thought 
out  what  he  was  going  to  say  to  Amy. 

He  had  seen  Ruth  that  afternoon.  He  went,  as 
usual,  to  see  her  father,  and  as  he  entered  the 
room  Ruth  was  sitting  beside  the  bed.  She  sat 
with  her  back  to  him  and  did  not  seem  to  know  at 
once  that  he  was  there.  She  was  bending  for 
ward,  elbow  on  her  knee,  hand  to  her  face,  looking 
at  her  father  who  was  asleep,  or,  rather,  in  that 
stupor  with  which  death  reaches  out  into  life, 
through  which  the  living  are  drawn  to  the  dead. 
She  was  sitting  very  still,  intent,  as  she  watched 
the  man  whom  life  was  letting  go. 

He  had  not  seen  Ruth  since  that  night,  eleven 
years  before,  when  she  clung  to  him  as  she  saw 
the  headlight  of  her  train,  then  turned  from  him 

138 


FIDELITY  139 

to  the  car  that  was  to  carry  her  away  from  the 
whole  world  she  knew.  It  had  seemed  that  the 
best  of  life  was  pulling  away  from  him  as  he  heard 
her  train  pull  out.  He  fairly  ran  away  from  the 
sound  of  it ;  not  alone  because  it  was  taking  Euth 
out  of  his  own  life,  but  because  it  was  bearing  her 
to  a  country  where  the  way  would  be  too  hard. 

He  knew  that  that  way  had  been  hard,  that  the 
years  had  not  spared  her ;  and  yet  there  had  been 
a  little  shock  when  he  saw  Ruth  that  afternoon; 
he  knew  now  that  his  fears  for  her  had  rather 
given  themselves  a  color  of  romance.  She  looked 
worn,  as  if  she  had  worked,  and,  just  at  first,  be 
fore  she  saw  him,  she  looked  older  than  it  would 
seem  that  number  of  years  should  make  her. 

But  when  she  heard  him  and  turned,  coming 
to  him  with  outstretched  hand,  it  was  as  it  used 
to  be — feeling  illumining,  transforming  her.  She 
was  the  old  flaming  Ruth  then,  the  years  that 
lined  her  defied.  Her  eyes — it  was  like  a  steady 
light  shining  through  trembling  waters.  No  one 
else  ever  gave  him  that  impression  Ruth  did  of  a 
certain  deep  steadiness  through  changing  feeling. 
He  had  thought  he  remembered  just  how  wonder 
ful  Ruth's  eyes  were — how  feeling  flamed  in  them 
and  that  steady  understanding  looked  through 
from  her  to  him — that  bridge  between  separate- 
ness.  But  they  were  newly  wonderful  to  him, — 
so  live,  so  tender,  so  potent. 

She  had  been  very  quiet ;  thinking  back  to  it,  he 


140  FIDELITY 

pondered  that.  It  seemed  not  alone  the  quiet  that 
comes  with  the  acceptance  of  death,  the  quiet  that 
is  the  subduing  effect  of  strange  or  moving  cir 
cumstances,  but  an  inner  quiet,  a  quiet  of  power. 
The  years  had  taken  something  from  Euth,  but 
Euth  had  won  much  from  them.  She  was  worn, 
a  little  dimmed,  but  deepened.  A  tragedy  queen 
she  was  not ;  he  had  a  little  smile  for  himself  for 
that  subconscious  romantic  expectation  that  gave 
him,  just  at  the  first,  a  little  shock  of  disappoint 
ment  when  he  saw  Euth.  A  tragedy  queen  would 
hold  herself  more  imposingly — and  would  have 
taken  better  care  of  her  hands.  But  that  moment 
of  a  lighted  way  between  Euth  and  him  could  let 
him  afford  to  smile  at  disappointed  romantic  ex 
pectation. 

He  had  been  there  for  only  a  few  minutes,  hav 
ing  the  long  trip  out  in  the  country  to  make.  Euth 
and  Ted  seemed  to  be  alone  in  the  house.  He 
asked  her  if  she  had  seen  Harriett,  and  she  an 
swered,  simply,  "Not  yet." 

She  had  said,  "You're  married,  Deane — and 
happy.  I'm  so  glad."  That,  too,  she  had  said 
very  simply;  it  was  real;  direct.  As  he  thought 
of  it  now  it  was  as  if  life  had  simplified  her;  she 
had  let  slip  from  her,  like  useless  garments,  all 
those  blurring  artificialities  that  keep  people 
apart. 

As  usual  he  would  go  over  again  that  evening 
to  see  his  patient;  and  then  he  would  remain  for 


FIDELITY  141 

a  visit  with  Euth.  And  he  wanted  to  take  Amy 
with  him.  He  would  not  let  himself  realize  just 
how  much  he  wanted  to  do  that,  how  much  he 
would  hate  not  doing  it.  He  was  thinking  it  out, 
trying  to  arrive  at  the  best  way  of  putting  it  to 
Amy.  If  only  he  could  make  it  seem  to  her  the 
simple  thing  it  was  to  him ! 

He  would  be  so  happy  to  do  this  for  Euth,  but 
it  was  more  than  that;  it  was  that  he  wanted  to 
bring  Amy  within — within  that  feeling  of  his 
about  Euth.  He  wanted  her  to  share  in  that.  He 
could  not  bear  to  leave  it  a  thing  from  which  she 
was  apart,  to  which  she  was  hostile.  He  could 
not  have  said  just  why  he  felt  it  so  important  Amy 
become  a  part  of  what  he  felt  about  Euth. 

When  at  last  they  were  together  over  their  un 
usually  late  dinner  the  thing  he  wanted  to  say 
seemed  to  grow  more  difficult  because  Amy  was 
so  much  dressed  up.  In  her  gown  of  that  after 
noon  she  looked  so  much  the  society  person  that 
what  he  had  in  mind  somehow  grew  less  simple. 
And  there  was  that  in  her  manner  too — like  her 
clothes  it  seemed  a  society  manner — to  make  it 
less  easy  to  attempt  to  take  her  into  things  outside 
the  conventional  round  of  life.  He  felt  a  little 
helpless  before  this  self-contained,  lovely  young 
person.  She  did  not  seem  easy  to  get  at.  Some 
how  she  seemed  to  be  apart  from  him.  There  was 
a  real  wistfulness  in  his  desire  to  take  her  into 
what  to  him  were  things  real  and  important.  It 


142  FIDELITY 

seemed  if  he  could  not  do  that  now  that  Amy 
would  always  be  a  little  apart  f com  him. 

Her  talk  was  of  the  tea  that  afternoon :  who  was 
there,  what  they  wore,  what  they  had  said  to  her, 
how  the  house  looked ;  how  lovely  Mrs.  Lawrence 
and  Edith  were. 

What  he  was  thinking  was  that  it  was  Buth's 
old  crowd  had  assembled  there — at  Edith's  house 
— to  be  gracious  to  Amy  that  afternoon.  She 
mentioned  this  name  and  that — girls  Euth  had 
grown  up  with,  girls  who  had  known  her  so  well, 
and  cared  for  her.  And  Euth  1  Had  they  spoken 
of  her?  Did  they  know  she  was  home?  If  they 
did,  did  it  leave  them  all  unmoved?  He  thought 
of  the  easy,  pleasant  way  life  had  gone  with  most 
of  those  old  friends  of  Buth's.  Had  they  neither 
the  imagination  nor  the  heart  to  go  out  in  the 
thought  of  the  different  thing  it  had  been  to  her? 

He  supposed  not;  certainly  they  had  given  no 
evidence  of  any  such  disposition.  It  hardened  him 
against  them.  He  hated  the  thought  of  the  gay 
tea  given  for  Amy  that  afternoon  when  Euth,  just 
back  after  all  thos.e  years  away,  was  home  alone 
with  her  father,  who  was  dying.  Amy  they  were 
taking  in  so  graciously — because  things  had  gone 
right  with  her;  Euth,  whom  they  knew,  who  had 
been  one  of  them,  they  left  completely  out.  There 
flamed  up  a  desire  to  take  Amy  with  him,  as 
against  them,  to  show  them  that  she  was  sweeter 
and  larger  than  they,  that  she  understood  and  put 


FIDELITY  143 

no  false  value  on  a  cordiality  that  left  the  heart 
hard. 

But  Amy  looked  so  much  one  of  them,  seemed 
so  much  one  with  them  in  her  talk  about  them,  that 
he  put  off  what  he  wanted  to  say,  listening  to  her. 
And  yet,  he  assured  himself,  that  was  not  the 
whole  of  Amy;  he  softened  and  took  heart  in  the 
thought  of  her  tenderness  in  moments  of  love,  her 
sweetness  when  the  world  fell  away  and  they  were 
man  and  woman  to  each  other.  Those  real  things 
were  stronger  in  her  than  this  crust  of  worldli- 
ness.  He  would  reach  through  that  to  the  life 
that  glowed  behind  it.  If  he  only  had  the  skill, 
the  understanding,  to  reach  through  that  crust  to 
the  life  within,  to  that  which  was  real,  she  would 
understand  that  the  very  thing  bringing  them 
their  happiness  was  the  thing  which  in  Euth  put 
her  apart  from  her  friends ;  she  would  be  larger, 
more  tender,  than  those  others.  He  wanted  that 
triumph  for  her  over  them.  He  would  glory  in  it 
so !  There  would  be  such  pride  in  showing  Amy 
to  Euth  as  a  woman  who  was  real.  And  most  of 
all,  because  it  was  a  thing  so  deep  in  his  own  life, 
he  wanted  Amy  to  come  within,  to  know  from 
within,  his  feeling  about  Euth. 

"You  know,  dear,  that  was  Euth's  old  crowd 
you  were  meeting  this  afternoon, ' '  he  finally  said. 

He  saw  her  instantly  stiffen.  Her  mouth  looked 
actually  hard.  That,  he  quickly  told  himself,  was 
what  those  people  had  done  to  her. 


144  FIDELITY 

' '  And  that  house, ' '  he  went  on,  his  voice  remain 
ing  quiet,  "was  like  another  home  to  Ruth." 

Amy  cleared  her  throat.  "She  didn't  make  a 
very  good  return  for  the  hospitality,  do  you 
think ?"  she  asked  sharply. 

Flushing,  he  started  to  reply  to  that,  but  in 
stead  asked  abruptly,  "Does  Edith  know  that 
Ruth  is  home?" 

"Yes,"  Amy  replied  coldly,  "they  were  speak 
ing  of  her. ' ' 

"Speaking  of  her!"  he  scoffed. 

"I  suppose  you  would  think,"  she  flamed,  "that 
they  ought  to  have  met  her  at  the  train ! ' ' 

"The  idea  doesn't  seem  to  me  preposterous," 
he  answered. 

Feeling  the  coldness  in  his  own  voice  he  realized 
how  he  was  at  the  very  start  getting  away  from 
the  thing  he  wanted  to  do,  was  estranging  Amy  by 
his  resentment  of  her  feeling  about  a  thing  she 
did  not  understand.  After  all — as  before,  he 
quickly  made  this  excuse  for  her — what  more 
natural  than  that  she  should  take  on  the  feeling 
of  these  people  she  was  thrown  with,  particularly 
when  they  were  so  very  kindly  in  their  reception 
of  her? 

"Dear,"  he  began  again,  "I  saw  Ruth  this  aft 
ernoon.  She  seems  so  alone  there.  She's  gone 
through  such — such  hard  things.  It's  a  pretty 
sad  home-coming  for  her.  I'm  going  over  there 


FIDELITY  145 

again  this  evening,  and,  Amy  dear,  I  do  so  want 
you  to  go  with  me. ' ' 

Amy  did  not  reply.  He  had  not  looked  at  her 
after  he  began  speaking — not  wanting  to  lose 
either  his  courage  or  his  temper  in  seeing  that 
stiffening  in  her.  He  did  not  look  at  her  now, 
even  though  she  did  not  speak. 

"I  want  you  to  go,  Amy.  I  ask  you  to.  I  want 
it — you  don't  know  how  much.  I'm  terribly  sorry 
for  Euth.  I  knew  her  very  well,  we  were  very 
close  friends.  Now  that  she  is  here,  and  in 
trouble — and  so  lonely — I  want  to  take  my  wife  to 
see  her." 

As  even  then  she  remained  silent,  he  turned  to 
her.  She  sat  very  straight;  red  spots  burned  in 
her  cheeks  and  there  was  a  light  in  her  eyes  he 
had  never  seen  there  before.  She  pushed  back 
her  chair  excitedly.  "And  may  I  ask," — her 
voice  was  high,  tight, — "if  you  see  nothing  insult 
ing  to  your  wife  in  this — proposal?" 

For  an  instant  he  just  stared  at  her.  "Insult 
ing?"  he  faltered.  "I— I—"  He  stopped,  help 
less,  and  helplessly  sat  looking  at  her,  sitting 
erect,  breathing  fast,  face  and  eyes  aflame  with 
anger.  And  in  that  moment  something  in  his 
heart  fell  back ;  a  desire  that  had  been  dear  to  him, 
a  thing  that  had  seemed  so  beautiful  and  so  neces 
sary,  somehow  just  crept  back  where  it  could  not 
be  so  much  hurt.  At  the  sight  of  her,  hard,  scorn- 


146  FIDELITY 

fill,  so  sure  in  her  hardness,  that  high  desire  of  his 
love  that  she  share  his  feeling  fell  back.  And 
then  to  his  disappointment  was  added  anger  for 
Buth;  through  the  years  anger  against  so  many 
people  had  leaped  up  in  him  because  of  their  hard 
ness  to  Euth,  that,  as  if  of  itself,  it  leaped  up 
against  Amy  now. 

"No,"  he  said,  his  voice  hard  now  too,  "I 
must  say  I  see  nothing  insulting  in  asking  you  to 
go  with  me  to  see  Euth  Holland ! ' ' 

"Oh,  you  don't!"  she  cried.  "A  woman  liv 
ing  with  another  woman's  husband!  Why,  this 
very  afternoon  I  was  with  the  wife  of  the  man 
that  woman  is  living  with! — she  is  the  woman  I 
would  meet !  And  you  can  ask  me — your  wife — to 
go  and  see  a  woman  who  turned  her  back  on  so 
ciety — on  decency — a  woman  her  own  family  cast 
out,  and  all  decent  people  turn  away  from. ' '  She 
paused,  struggling,  unable  to  keep  her  dignity  and 
yet  say  the  things  rushing  up  to  be  said. 

He  had  grown  red,  as  he  always  did  when 
people  talked  that  way  about  Euth.  ' '  Of  course, ' ' 
— he  made  himself  say  it  quietly — "she  isn't  those 
things  to  me,  you  know.  She's — quite  other 
things  to  me." 

"I'd  like  to  know  what  she  is  to  you!"  Amy 
cried.  "It's  very  strange — your  standing  up  for 
her  against  the  whole  town!" 

He  did  not  reply ;  it  was  impossible  to  tell  Amy, 


FIDELITY  147 

when  she  was  like  this,  what  Euth  had  been — was 
— to  him. 

She  looked  at  him  as  he  sat  there  silent.  And 
this  was  the  man  she  had  married! — a  man  who 
could  treat  her  like  this,  asking  her  to  go  and  see  a 
woman  who  wasn't  respectable — why,  who  was  as 
far  from  respectable  as  a  woman  could  be !  This 
was  the  man  for  whom  she  had  left  her  mother 
and  father — and  a  home  better  than  this  home  cer 
tainly, — yes,  and  that  other  man  who  had  wanted 
her  and  who  had  so  much  more  to  offer!  He  re 
spected  her.  He  would  never  ask  her  to  go  and 
see  a  woman  who  wasn't  decent!  But  she  had 
married  for  love;  had  given  up  all  those  other 
things  that  she  might  have  love.  And  now.  .  .  . 
Her  throat  tightened  and  it  was  hard  to  hold  back 
tears.  And  then  suddenly  she  wanted  to  go  over 
to  Deane,  slip  down  beside  him,  put  her  arms 
around  him,  tell  him  that  she  loved  him  and  ask 
him  to  please  tell  her  that  he  loved  her.  But 
there  was  so  strange  an  expression  on  his  face;  it 
checked  that  warm,  loving  impulse,  holding  her 
where  she  was,  hard.  What  was  he  thinking 
about— that  woman?  He  had  so  strange  a  look. 
She  did  not  believe  it  had  anything  to  do  with  her. 
No,  he  had  forgotten  her.  It  was  this  other 
woman.  Why,  he  was  in  love  with  her — of 
course !  He  had  always  been  in  love  with  her. 

Because  it  seemed  the  idea  would  break  her 


148  FIDELITY 

heart,  because  she  could  not  bear  it,  it  was  scof- 
fingly  that  she  threw  out:  "You  were  in  love 
with  her,  I  suppose?  You've  always  been  in  love 
with  her,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes,  Amy,"  he  answered,  "I  was  in  love  with 
Euth.  I  loved  her — at  any  rate,  I  sorrowed  for 
her — until  the  day  I  met  you." 

His  voice  was  slow  and  sad ;  the  whole  sadness 
of  it  all,  all  the  sadness  of  a  world  in  which  men 
and  women  loved  and  hurt  each  other  seemed  clos 
ing  in  around  him.  He  did  not  seem  able  to  rise 
out  of  it,  to  go  out  to  her ;  it  was  as  if  his  new  dis 
appointment  brought  back  all  the  hurt  of  old  ones. 

Young,  all  inexperienced  in  the  ways  of  adjust 
ing  love  to  life,  of  saving  it  for  life,  the  love  in 
her  tried  to  shoot  through  the  self-love  that  closed 
her  in,  holding  her  tight.  She  wanted  to  follow 
that  impulse,  go  over  and  put  her  arms  around  her 
husband,  let  her  kisses  drive  away  that  look  of 
sadness.  She  knew  that  she  could  do  it,  that  she 
ought  to  do  it,  that  she  would  be  sorry  for  not  hav 
ing  done  it,  but — she  couldn't.  Love  did  not  know 
how  to  fight  its  way  through  pride. 

He  had  risen.  "I  must  go.  I  have  a  number 
of  calls  to  make.  I — I'm  sorry  you  feel  as  you  do, 
Amy. ' ' 

He  was  not  going  to  explain!  He  was  just 
leaving  her  outside  it  all!  He  didn't  care  for  her, 
really,  at  all — just  took  her  because  he  couldn't 
get  that  other  woman !  Took  her — Amy  Forrester 


FIDELITY  149 

— because  he  couldn't  get  the  woman  he  wanted! 
Great  bands  of  incensed  pride  bound  her  heart 
now,  closing  in  the  love  that  had  fluttered  there. 
Her  face,  twisted  with  varying  emotions,  was 
fairly  ugly  as  she  cried:  "Well,  I  must  say,  I  wish 
you  had  told  me  this  before  we  were  married !" 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  Then,  surprised 
anew,  looked  quickly  away.  Feeling  that  he  had 
failed,  he  tried  to  put  it  aside  lightly.  "Oh,  come 
now,  Amy,  you  didn't  think,  did  you,  that  you 
could  marry  a  man  of  thirty-four  who  had  never 
loved  any  woman?" 

"I  should  like  to  think  he  had  loved  a  respect 
able  woman!"  she  cried,  wounded  anew  by  this 
lightness,  unable  to  hold  back  things  she  miserably 
knew  she  would  be  sorry  she  had  not  held  back. 
"And  if  he  had  loved  that  kind  of  a  woman — did 
love  her — I  should  like  to  think  he  had  too  much 
respect  for  his  wife  to  ask  her  to  meet  such  a 
person!" 

"Euth  Holland  is  not  a  woman  to  speak  like  that 
about,  Amy,"  he  said  with  unconcealed  anger. 

"She's  not  a  decent  woman!  She's  not  a  re 
spectable  woman!  She's  a  bad  woman!  She's  a 
low  woman ! ' ' 

She  could  not  hold  it  back.  She  knew  she 
looked  unlovely,  knew  she  was  saying  things  that 
would  not  make  her  loved.  She  could  not  help  it. 
Deane  turned  away  from  her.  After  a  minute  he 
got  a  little  control  of  himself  and  instead  of  the 


150  FIDELITY 

hot  things  that  had  flashed  up,  said  coldly:  "I 
don't  think  you  know  what  you're  talking  about. " 

"Of  course  I  couldn't  hope  to  know  as  much  as 
she  does,"  she  jeered.  "However,"  she  went  on, 
with  more  of  a  semblance  of  dignity,  "I  do  know  a 
few  things.  I  know  that  society  cannot  counte 
nance  a  woman  who  did  what  that  woman  did.  I 
know  that  if  a  woman  is  going  to  selfishly  take  her 
own  happiness  with  no  thought  of  others  she  must 
expect  to  find  herself  outside  the  lives  of  decent 
people.  Society  must  protect  itself  against  such 
persons  as  she.  I  know  that  much — fortunately. ' ' 

Her  words  fortified  her.  She,  certainly,  was  in 
the  right.  She  felt  that  she  had  behind  her  all 
those  women  of  that  afternoon.  Did  any  of  them 
receive  Euth  Holland?  Did  they  not  all  see  that 
society  must  close  in  against  the  individual  who 
defied  it?  She  felt  supported. 

For  the  minute  he  stood  there  looking  at  her — 
so  absolutely  unyielding,  so  satisfied  in  her  conclu 
sions, — those  same  things  about  society  and  the 
individual  that  he  had  heard  from  the  rest  of 
them;  like  the  rest  of  them  so  satisfied  with  the 
law  she  had  laid  down — law  justifying  hardness 
of  heart  and  closing  in  against  the  sorrow  of  a 
particular  human  life;  from  Amy  now  that  same 
look,  those  same  words.  For  a  little  time  he  did 
not  speak.  "I'm  awfully  sorry,  Amy,"  was  all  he 
said  then. 


FIDELITY  151 

He  stood  there  in  miserable  embarrassment. 
He  always  kissed  her  good-by. 

She  saw  his  hesitancy  and  turned  to  the  other 
room.  "Hadn't  you  better  hurry  1"  she  laughed. 
"You  have  so  many  calls  to  make — and  some  of 
them  so  important!'' 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

It  was  quiet  that  evening  in  the  house  of  Cyrus 
Holland ;  the  noises  that  living  makes  were  muffled 
by  life's  awe  of  death,  even  sounds  that  could  not 
disturb  the  dying  guarded  against  by  the  sense 
of  decorum  of  those  living  on.  Downstairs  were 
people  who  had  come  to  inquire  for  the  man  they 
knew  would  not  be  one  of  them  again.  For  forty 
years  Cyrus  Holland  had  been  a  factor  in  the 
affairs  of  the  town.  He  was  Freeport's  senior 
banker,  the  old-fashioned  kind  of  banker,  with 
neither  the  imagination  nor  the  daring  to  make  of 
himself  a  rich  man,  or  of  his  bank  an  institution 
using  all  the  possibilities  of  its  territory.  In  ven 
turing  days  he  remained  cautious.  His  friends 
said  that  he  was  sane — responsible;  men  of  a 
newer  day  put  it  that  he  was  limited,  lacking  in 
that  boldness  which  makes  the  modern  man  of 
affairs.  He  had  advised  many  men  and  always 
on  the  side  of  safety.  No  one  had  grown  rich 
through  his  suggestions,  but  more  than  one  had 
been  saved  by  his  counsels.  With  the  expansion 
of  the  business  of  the  town  newer  banks  had  gone 
ahead  of  his,  and  when  they  said  he  was  one  of  the 
good  substantial  men  of  the  community  they  were 

.152 


FIDELITY  153 

indicating  his  limitations  with  his  virtues.  Such 
a  man,  not  a  brilliant  figure  through  his  lifetime, 
would  be  lamented  in  his  passing.  They  had 
often  said  that  he  failed  in  using  his  opportuni 
ties;  what  they  said  now  was  that  he  had  never 
abused  them — death,  as  usual,  inducing  the  living 
to  turn  the  kindly  side  to  the  truth  about  the 
dying. 

Ruth  did  not  go  downstairs  to  see  the  people 
who  were  coming  in.  Ted  was  down  there,  and 
Flora  Copeland,  a  spinster  cousin  of  the  Hollands, 
who  for  several  years  had  lived  in  the  house. 
Once,  in  passing  through  the  hall,  she  heard  voices 
which  she  recognized.  She  stood  there  listening 
to  them.  It  was  so  strange  to  hear  them;  and  so 
good.  She  was  hungry  for  voices  she  knew — old 
voices.  Once  there  was  a  pause  and  her  heart 
beat  fast  for  she  got  a  feeling  that  maybe  they 
were  going  to  ask  for  her.  But  they  broke  that 
pause  to  say  goodnight.  She  had  received  no 
message  about  anyone  asking  for  her. 

But  even  though  she  was  not  seeing  the  people 
who  came  she  felt  the  added  strangeness  her  pres 
ence  made  in  that  house  which  had  suspended  the 
usual  affairs  of  living  in  waiting  for  death.  The 
nurse  was  one  of  the  girls  of  the  town,  of  a  family 
Ruth  knew.  She  had  been  only  a  little  girl  at  the 
time  Ruth  went  away.  She  was  conscious,  in  the 
young  woman's  scrupulously  professional  manner 
toward  herself,  of  a  covert  interest,  as  in  some- 


154  FIDELITY 

thing  mysterious,  forbidden.  She  could  see  that 
to  this  decorous  young  person  she  was  a  woman 
out  of  another  world.  It  hurt  her,  and  it  made 
her  a  little  angry.  She  wished  that  this  profes 
sional,  proper  young  woman,  stealing  glances  as 
at  a  forbidden  thing,  could  know  the  world  in 
which  she  actually  lived. 

And  yet  it  occurred  to  her  that  the  strain  was 
less  great  than  it  would  have  been  at  any  other 
time — something  about  a  room  of  death  making 
the  living  a  little  less  prone  to  divide  themselves 
into  good  and  bad,  approved  and  condemned. 
With  the  approach  of  death  there  are  likely  to  be 
only  two  classes — the  living  and  the  dead.  After 
the  first  few  hours,  despite  the  estranging  circum 
stances,  there  did  seem  to  be  some  sort  of  a  bond 
between  her  and  this  girl  who  attended  her 
father. 

Euth  and  Ted  and  Flora  Copeland  had  had' din 
ner  together.  Her  Cousin  Flora  had  evidently 
pondered  the  difficult  question  of  a  manner  with 
Euth  and  was  pursuing  it  scrupulously.  Her  plan 
was  clearly  indicated  in  her  manner.  She  would 
seem  to  be  acting  as  if  nothing  had  happened  and 
yet  at  the  same  time  made  it  plain  that  she  in  no 
sense  countenanced  the  person  to  whom  she  was 
being  kind.  Her  manner  was  that  most  dismal  of 
all  things — a  punctilious  kindliness. 

This  same  Cousin  Flora,  now  an  anaemic  woman 
of  forty-five,  had  not  always  been  exclusively  con- 


FIDELITY  155 

cerned  with  propriety.  Euth  could  remember 
Cousin  Flora's  love  affair,  which  had  so  greatly 
disturbed  the  members  of  the  family,  and  which, 
to  save  their  own  pride,  they  had  thwarted. 
Cousin  Flora  had  had  the  misfortune  to  fall  in 
love  with  a  man  quite  outside  the  social  sphere  of 
the  Copelands  and  the  Hollands.  He  was  a  young 
laboring  man  whom  she  knew  through  the  social 
affairs  of  the  church.  He  had  the  presumption  to 
fall  in  love  with  her.  She  had  not  had  love  be 
fore,  being  less  generously  endowed  in  other  re 
spects  than  with  social  position  in  Freeport. 
There  had  been  a  brief,  mad  time  when  Cousin 
Flora  had  seemed  to  find  love  greater  than  ex- 
clusiveness.  But  the  undesirable  affair  was  frus 
trated  by  a  family  whose  democracy  did  not  ex 
tend  beyond  a  working  together  for  the  good  of 
the  Lord,  and  Cousin  Flora  was,  as  Euth  remem 
bered  their  saying  with  satisfaction,  saved.  Look 
ing  at  her  now  Euth  wondered  if  there  ever  came 
times  when  she  regretted  having  been  saved. 

She  tried  to  make  the  most  of  all  those  little 
things  that  came  into  her  mind  just  because  this 
homecoming  was  so  desolate  a  thing  to  be  left 
alone  with.  She  had  many  times  lived  through 
a  homecoming.  And  when  she  had  thought  of 
coming  home  she  had  always,  in  spite  of  it  all, 
thought  of  things  as  much  the  same.  And  now 
even  she  and  Ted  were  strange  with  each  other ; 
it  was  Ted  the  little  boy  she  knew ;  it  was  hard  all 


156  FIDELITY 

at  once  to  bridge  years  in  which  they  had  not 
shared  experiences. 

It  was  the  house  itself  seemed  really  to  take  her 
in.  When  she  got  her  first  sight  of  it  all  the  things 
in  between  just  rolled  away.  She  was  back. 
What  moved  her  first  was  not  that  things  had 
changed  but  that  they  were  so  much  the  same — 
the  gate,  the  walk  up  to  the  house,  the  big  tree,  the 
steps  of  the  porch ;  as  she  went  up  the  walk  there 
was  the  real  feeling  of  coming  home. 

Then  they  stepped  up  on  the  porch — and  her 
mother  was  not  there  to  open  the  door  for  her; 
she  knew  then  with  a  poignancy  even  those  first 
days  had  not  carried  that  she  would  never  see  her 
mother  again,  knew  as  she  stepped  into  the  house 
that  her  mother  was  gone.  And  yet  it  would  keep 
seeming  her  mother  must  be  somewhere  in  that 
house,  that  in  a  little  while  she  would  come  in  the 
room  and  tell  something  about  where  she  had  been. 
And  she  would  find  herself  listening  for  her 
grandfather's  slow,  uncertain  step;  and  for  Ter 
ror's  bark — one  of  his  wild,  glad  rushes  into  the 
room.  Ted  said  that  Terror  had  been  run  over 
by  an  automobile  a  number  of  years  before. 

Nor  was  it  only  those  whom  death  kept  away 
who  were  not  there.  Her  sister  Harriett  had  not 
been  there  to  welcome  her ;  now  it  was  evening  and 
she  had  not  yet  seen  her.  Ted  had  merely  said 
that  he  guessed  Harriett  was  tired  out.  He 
seemed  embarrassed  about  it  and  had  hastily  be- 


FIDELITY  157 

gun  to  talk  of  something  else.  And  none  of  the 
old  girls  had  come  in  to  see  her.  ^The  fact  that  she 
had  not  expected  them  to  come  somehow  did  not 
much  relieve  the  hurt  of  their  not  coming.  When 
a  door  opened  she  would  find  herself  listening  for 
Edith's  voice;  there  was  no  putting  down  the  feel 
ing  that  surely  Edith  would  be  running  in  soon. 

Most  of  the  time  she  sat  by  her  father's  bed; 
though  she  was  watching  him  dying,  to  sit  there 
by  him  was  the  closest  to  comfort  she  could  come. 
And  as  she  watched  the  face  which  already  had  the 
look  of  death  there  would  come  pictures  of  her 
father  at  various  times  through  the  years.  There 
was  that  day  when  she  was  a  tiny  girl  and  he  came 
home  bringing  her  a  puppy;  she  could  see  his 
laughing  face  as  he  held  the  soft,  wriggling,  fuzzy 
little  ball  of  life  up  to  her,  see  him  standing  there 
enjoying  her  delight.  She  saw  him  as  he  was  one 
day  when  she  said  she  was  not  going  to  Sunday- 
school,  that  she  was  tired  of  Sunday-school  and 
was  not  going  any  more.  She  could  hear  him  say 
ing,  "Kuth,  go  upstairs  and  put  on  your  clothes 
for  Sunday-school!" — see  him  as  plainly  as 
though  it  had  just  happened  standing  there  point 
ing  a  stern  finger  toward  the  stairs,  not  moving 
until  she  had  started  to  obey  him.  And  once  when 
she  and  Edith  and  some  other  girls  were  making 
a  great  noise  on  the  porch  he  had  stepped  out  from 
the  living-room,  where  he  and  some  men  were  sit 
ting  about  the  table,  looking  over  something,  and 


158  FIDELITY 

said,  mildly,  affectionately,  "My  dears,  what 
would  you  think  of  making  a  little  less  noise  T' 
Queer  things  to  be  remembering,  but  she  saw  just 
how  he  looked,  holding  the  screen  door  open  as  he 
said  it. 

And  as  she  sat  there  thinking  of  how  she  would 
never  hear  his  voice  again,  he  reached  out  his  hand 
as  if  groping  for  something  he  wanted ;  and  when 
with  a  little  sob  she  quickly  took  it  he  clasped  her 
hand,  putting  into  it  a  strength  that  astonished 
her.  He  turned  toward  her  after  that  and  the 
nature  of  his  sleep  changed  a  little;  it  seemed 
more  natural,  as  if  there  were  something  of  peace 
in  it.  It  was  as  if  he  had  turned  to  her,  reached 
out  his  hand  for  her,  knowing  she  was  there  and 
wanting  her.  He  was  too  far  from  life  for  more, 
but  he  had  done  what  he  could.  Her  longing  gave 
the  little  movement  big  meaning.  Sitting  there 
holding  the  hand  of  her  father  who  would  never 
talk  to  her  nor  listen  to  her  again,  she  wanted  as 
she  had  never  wanted  before  to  tell  her  story. 
She  had  been  a  long  time  away;  she  had  had  a 
hard  time.  She  wanted  to  tell  him  about  it, 
wanted  to  try  and  make  him  understand  how  it 
had  all  happened.  She  wanted  to  tell  him  how 
homesick  she  had  been  and  how  she  had  always 
loved  them  all.  It  seemed  if  she  could  just  make 
him  know  what  it  was  she  had  felt,  and  what  she 
had  gone  through,  he  would  be  sorry  for  her  and 
love  her  as  he  used  to. 


FIDELITY  159 

Someone  had  come  into  the  room;  she  did  not 
turn  at  once,  trying  to  make  her  blurred  eyes  clear. 
When  she  looked  around  she  saw  her  sister  Har 
riett.  Her  father  had  relaxed  his  hold  on  her  hand 
and  so  she  rose  and  turned  to  her  sister. 

"Well,  Ruth,"  said  Harriett,  in  an  uncertain 
tone.  Then  she  kissed  her.  The  kiss,  too,  was  un 
certain,  as  if  she  had  not  known  what  to  do  about 
it,  but  had  decided  in  its  favor.  But  she  had 
kissed  her.  Again  that  hunger  to  be  taken  in 
made  much  of  little.  She  stood  there  struggling 
to  hold  back  the  sobs.  If  only  Harriett  would  put 
her  arms  around  her  and  really  kiss  her! 

But  Harriett  continued  to  stand  there  uncer 
tainly.  Then  she  moved,  as  if  embarrassed.  And 
then  she  spoke.  "Did  you  have  a — comfortable 
trip  1 ' '  she  asked. 

The  struggle  with  sobs  was  over.  Euth  took  a 
step  back  from  her  sister.  It  was  a  perfectly  con 
trolled  voice  which  answered:  "Yes,  Harriett, 
my  trip  was  comfortable — thank  you." 

Harriett  flushed  and  still  stood  there  uncer 
tainly.  Then,  "Did  the  town  look  natural!"  she 
asked,  diffidently  this  time. 

But  Euth  did  not  say  whether  the  town  had 
looked  natural  or  not.  She  had  noticed  some 
thing.  In  a  little  while  Harriett  would  have  an 
other  baby.  And  she  had  not  known  about  it! 
Harriett,  to  be  sure,  had  had  other  babies  and  she 
had  not  known  about  it,  but  somehow  to  see  Har- 


160  FIDELITY 

riett,  not  having  known  it,  brought  it  home  hard 
that  she  was  not  one  of  them  any  more;  she  did 
not  know  when  children  were  to  be  born;  she  did 
not  know  what  troubled  or  what  pleased  them; 
did  not  know  how  they  managed  the  affairs  of  liv 
ing — who  their  neighbors  were — their  friends. 
She  had  not  known  about  Harriett;  Harriett  did 
not  know  about  her — her  longing  for  a  baby,  long 
ing  which  circumstances  made  her  sternly  deny 
herself.  Unmindful  of  the  hurt  of  a  moment  be 
fore  she  now  wanted  to  pour  all  that  out  to  Har 
riett,  wanted  to  talk  with  her  of  those  deep,  com 
mon  things. 

The  nurse  had  come  in  the  room  and  was  begin 
ning  some  preparations  for  the  night.  Harriett 
was  moving  toward  the  door.  "Harriett,"  Euth 
began  timidly,  "won't  you  come  in  my  room  a 
little  while  and— talk  f " 

Harriett  hesitated.  They  were  near  the  top  of 
the  stairs  and  voices  could  be  heard  below.  "I 
guess  not,"  she  said  nervously.  "Not  to-night," 
she  added  hurriedly;  "that's  Edgar  down  there. 
He's  waiting  for  me." 

"Then  goodnight,"  said  Euth  very  quietly,  and 
turned  to  her  room. 

All  day  long  she  had  been  trying  to  keep  away 
from  her  room.  ' i Thought  probably  you'd  like  to 
have  your  old  room,  Euth,"  Ted  had  said  in  tak 
ing  her  to  it.  He  had  added,  a  little  hurriedly, 
"Guess  no  one's  had  it  since  you  left" 


FIDELITY  161 

It  looked  as  if  it  was  true  enough  no  one  had 
used  it  since  she  went  out  of  it  that  night  eleven 
years  before.  The  same  things  were  there;  the 
bed  was  in  the  same  position ;  so  was  her  dressing 
table,  and  over  by  the  big  window  that  opened  to 
her  side  porch  was  the  same  little  low  chair  she  al 
ways  sat  in  to  put  on  her  shoes  and  stockings.  It 
took  her  a  long  way  back ;  it  made  old  things  very 
strangely  real.  She  sat  down  in  her  little  chair 
now  and  looked  over  at  a  picture  of  the  Madonna 
Edith  had  once  given  her  on  her  birthday.  She 
could  hear  people  moving  about  downstairs,  hear 
voices.  She  had  never  in  her  whole  life  felt  as 
alone. 

And  then  she  grew  angry.  Harriett  had  no 
right  to  treat  her  like  that !  She  had  worked ;  she 
had  suffered ;  she  had  done  her  best  in  meeting  the 
hard  things  of  living.  She  had  gone  the  way  of 
women,  met  the  things  women  meet.  Why,  she 
had  done  her  own  washing!  Harriett  had  no 
right  to  treat  her  as  if  she  were  clear  outside  the 
common  things  of  life. 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  window  and  lowering  it 
leaned  out.  She  had  grown  used  to  turning  from 
hard  things  within  to  the  night.  There  in  the 
South-west,  where  they  slept  out  of  doors,  she  had 
come  to  know  the  night.  Ever  since  that  it  had 
seemed  to  have  something  for  her,  something  from 
which  she  could  draw.  And  after  they  had  gone 
through  those  first  years  and  the  fight  was  not  for 


162  FIDELITY 

keeping  life  but  for  making  a  place  for  it  in  the 
world,  she  had  many  times  stepped  from  a  cramp 
ing  little  house  full  of  petty  questions  she  did  not 
know  how  to  deal  with,  from  a  hard  little  routine 
that  threatened  their  love  out  to  the  vast,  still 
night  of  that  Colorado  valley  and  always  some 
thing  had  risen  in  herself  which  gave  her  power. 
So  many  times  that  had  happened  that  instinct 
ively  she  turned  to  the  outside  now,  leaning  her 
head  against  the  lowered  casing.  The  oak  tree 
was  gently  tapping  against  the  house — that  same 
old  sound  that  had  gone  all  through  her  girlhood ; 
the  familiar  fragrance  of  a  flowering  vine  on  the 
porch  below;  the  thrill  of  the  toads  off  there  in 
the  little  ravine,  a  dog's  frolicsome  barking;  the 
laughter  of  some  boys  and  girls  who  were  going 
by — old  things  those,  sweeping  her  back  to  old 
things.  Down  in  the  next  block  some  boys  were 
singing  that  old  serenading  song,  "Good-night, 
Ladies. ' '  Long  ago  boys  had  sung  it  to  her.  She 
stood  there  listening  to  it,  tears  running  down  her 
face. 

She  was  startled  by  a  tap  at  the  door;  dashing 
her  hands  across  her  face  she  eagerly  called, 
"Come  in." 

"Deane's  here,  Kuth,"  said  Ted.  "Wants  to 
see  you.  Shall  I  tell  him  to  come  in  here?" 

She  nodded,  but  for  an  instant  Ted  stood  there 
looking  at  her.  She  was  so  strange.  She  had 


FIDELITY  163 

been  crying,  and  yet  she  seemed  so  glad,  so  excited 
about  something. 

"Oh,  Deane,"  she  cried,  holding  out  her  two 
hands  to  him,  laughter  and  sobs  crowding  out  to 
gether,  "talk  to  me!  How's  your  mother! 
How's  your  Aunt  Margaret's  rheumatism? 
What  kind  of  an  automobile  have  you?  What 
about  your  practice?  What  about  your  dog? 
Why,  Deane,"  she  rushed  on,  "I'm  just  starving 
for  things  like  that!  You  know  I'm  just  Kuth, 
don't  you,  Deane?"  She  laughed  a  little  wildly. 
"And  I've  come  home.  And  I  want  to  know 
about  things.  Why  I  could  listen  for  hours  about 
what  streets  are  being  paved — and  who  supports 
old  Mrs.  Lynch!  Don't  you  see,  Deane?"  she 
laughed  through  tears.  "But  first  tell  me  about 
Edith!  How  does  she  look?  How  many  children 
has  she?  Who  are  her  friends?  And  oh,  Deane 
— tell  me, — does  she  ever  say  anything  about 
me?" 

They  talked  for  more  than  two  hours.  She  kept 
pouring  out  questions  at  him  every  time  he  would 
stop  for  breath.  She  fairly  palpitated  with  that 
desire  to  hear  little  things — what  Bob  Horton  did 
for  a  living,  whether  Helen  Matthews  still  gave 
music  lessons.  She  hung  tremulous  upon  his 
words,  laughing  and  often  half  crying  as  he  told 
little  stories  about  quarrels  and  jokes — about 
churches  and  cooks.  In  his  profession  he  had 


164  FIDELITY 

many  times  seen  a  system  craving  a  particular 
thing,  but  it  seemed  to  him  he  had  never  seen  any 
need  more  pitifully  great  than  this  of  hers  for 
laughing  over  the  little  drolleries  of  life.  And 
then  they  sank  into  deeper  channels — he  found 
himself  telling  her  things  he  had  not  told  anyone : 
about  his  practice,  about  the  men  he  was  associ 
ated  with,  things  he  had  come  to  think. 

And  she  talked  to  him  of  Stuart's  health,  of 
their  efforts  at  making  a  living — what  she  thought 
of  dry  farming,  of  heaters  for  apple  orchards ;  the 
cattle  business,  the  character  of  Western  people. 
She  told  him  of  the  mountains  in  winter — snow 
down  to  their  feet;  of  Colorado  air  on  a  winter's 
morning.  And  then  of  more  personal,  intimate 
things — how  lonely  they  had  been,  how  much  of  a 
struggle  they  had  found  it.  She  talked  of  the  dis 
advantage  Stuart  was  at  because  of  his  position, 
how  he  had  grown  sensitive  because  of  suspicion, 
because  there  were  people  who  kept  away  from 
him ;  how  she  herself  had  not  made  friends,  afraid 
to  because  several  times  after  she  had  come  to 
know  the  people  around  her  they  had  ' l  heard, " 
and  drawn  away.  She  told  it  all  quite  simply,  just 
that  she  wanted  to  let  him  know  about  their  lives. 
He  could  see  what  it  was  meaning  to  her  to  talk, 
that  she  had  been  too  tight  within  and  was  finding 
relief.  "I  try  not  to  talk  much  to  Stuart  about 
things  that  would  make  him  feel  bad,"  she  said. 
"He  gets  despondent.  It's  been  very  hard  for 


FIDELITY    ,  165 

Stuart,  Deane.  He  misses  his  place  among  men. ' ' 
She  fell  silent  there,  brooding  over  that — a 
touch  of  that  tender,  passionate  brooding  he  knew 
of  old.  And  as  he  watched  her  he  himself  was 
thinking,  not  of  how  hard  it  had  been  for  Stuart, 
but  of  what  it  must  have  been  to  Euth.  That 
hunger  of  hers  for  companionship  told  him  more 
than  words  could  possibly  have  done  of  what  her 
need  had  been.  He  studied  her  as  she  sat  there 
silent.  She  was  the  same  old  Euth,  but  a  deep 
ened  Euth ;  there  was  the  same  old  sweetness,  but 
new  power.  He  had  a  feeling  that  there  was  noth 
ing  in  the  world  Euth  would  not  understand ;  that 
bars  to  her  spirit  were  down,  that  she  would  go 
out  in  tenderness  to  anything  that  was  of  life — to 
sorrow,  to  joy,  with  the  insight  to  understand  and 
the  warmth  to  care.  He  looked  at  her :  worn  down 
by  living,  yet  glorified  by  it;  hurt,  yet  valiant. 
The  life  in  her  had  gone  through  so  much  and  cir 
cumstances  had  not  been  able  to  beat  it  down. 
And  this  was  the  woman  Amy  said  it  was  insulting 
of  him  to  ask  her  to  meet ! 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  her  bright,  warm 
smile.  i  i  Oh,  Deane,  it 's  been  so  good !  You  don 't 
know  how  youVe  helped  me.  Why  you  wouldn't 
believe,"  she  laughed,  "how  much  better  I  feel." 

They  had  risen  and  he  had  taken  her  hand  for 
goodnight.  "You  always  helped  me,  Deane,"  she 
said  in  her  simple  way.  "You  never  failed  me. 
You  don't  know" — this  with  one  of  those  flashes 


166  FIDELITY 

of  feeling  that  lighted  Euth  and  made  her  wonder 
ful — "how  many  times,  when  things  were  going 
badly,  I've  thought  of  you — and  wanted  to  see 
you." 

They  stood  there  a  moment  silent;  the  things 
they  had  lived  through  together,  in  which  they  had 
shared  understanding,  making  a  spiritual  current 
between  them.  She  broke  from  it  with  a  light, 
fond:  "Dear  Deane,  I'm  so  glad  you're  happy. 
I  want  you  to  be  happy  always." 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

Those  words  kept  coining  back  to  him  after  he 
had  gone  to  bed:  "I'm  so  glad  you're  happy — I 
want  you  to  be  happy  always. "  Amy  was  asleep 
when  he  came  home,  or  he  took  it  for  granted  that 
she  was  asleep  and  was  careful  not  to  disturb  her, 
for  it  was  past  midnight.  Be  wished  she  would 
turn  to  him  with  a  sleepy  little  smile.  He  wanted 
to  be  made  to  feel  that  it  was  true  he  was  happy, 
that  he  was  going  to  be  happy  always.  That  night 
was  not  filled  with  the  sweetness  of  love's  faith  in 
permanence.  He  tried  to  put  away  the  thought  of 
how  Amy  had  looked  as  she  said  those  things 
about  Euth.  Knowing  the  real  Ruth,  his  feeling 
about  her  freshened,  deepened,  he  could  not  bear 
to  think  of  Amy  as  having  said  those  things.  He 
held  it  off  in  telling  himself  again  that  that  was 
what  the  people  of  the  town  had  done,  that  he  him 
self  had  not  managed  well.  He  would  try  again — 
a  little  differently.  Amy  was  really  so  sweet,  so 
loving,  he  told  himself,  that  she  would  come  to  be 
different  about  this.  Though  he  did  not  dwell  on 
that,  either — upon  her  coming  to  be  different ;  her 
face  in  saying  those  things  was  a  little  too  hard  to 
forget.  He  kept  up  a  pretence  with  himself  on  the 
surface,  but  down  in  his  heart  he  asked  less  now ; 

167 


168  FIDELITY 

he  was  not  asking  of  love  that  complete  sharing, 
that  deep  understanding  which  had  been  his  dream 
before  he  talked  to  Amy.  He  supposed  things 
would  go  on  about  the  same — just  that  that  one 
thing  wouldn't  be,  was  the  thought  with  which  he 
went  to  sleep,  making  his  first  compromise  with  his 
ideal  for  their  love.  Just  as  he  was  falling  asleep 
there  came  before  him,  half  of  dreams,  Buth's 
face  as  it  had  been  when  she  seemed  to  be  brood 
ing  over  the  things  life  brought  one.  It  was  as  if 
pain  had  endowed  her  with  understanding.  Did 
it  take  pain  to  do  it  ? 

He  had  an  early  morning  call  to  make  and  left 
home  without  really  talking  to  Amy.  When  he 
woke  in  the  morning,  yearning  to  be  back  in  the 
new  joy  of  her  love,  he  was  going  to  tell  her  that 
he  was  sorry  he  had  hurt  her,  sorry  there  was  this 
thing  they  looked  at  differently,  but  that  he  loved 
her  with  his  whole  heart  and  that  they  were  going 
to  be  happy  just  the  same,  and  then  maybe  some 
time  they'd  "get  together"  on  this.  It  was  a 
thing  he  would  not  have  said  he  would  do,  but 
there  are  many  things  one  will  do  to  get  from  the 
shadow  back  into  that  necessary  sunlight  of  love. 

However,  there  was  not  opportunity  then  for 
doing  it ;  he  had  to  hurry  to  the  hospital  and  Amy 
gave  him  no  chance  for  such  a  moment  with  her. 
She  had  the  manner  of  keeping  up  an  appearance 
of  going  on  as  if  nothing  had  happened ;  as  if  that 
thing  were  left  behind — frosted  over.  She  kissed 


FIDELITY  169 

him  good-by,  but  even  in  that  there  seemed  an  im 
mense  reservation.  It  made  him  unhappy,  wor 
ried  him.  He  told  himself  that  he  would  have  to 
talk  to  Amy,  that  it  wouldn't  do  to  leave  the  thing 
that  way. 

It  had  been  so  easy  to  talk  to  Euth ;  it  seemed 
that  one  could  talk  to  her  about  anything,  that 
there  was  no  danger  of  saying  a  thing  and  having 
it  bound  back  from  a  wall  of  opinions  and  preju 
dices  that  kept  him  from  her.  There  was  some 
thing  resting,  relaxing,  in  the  way  one  could  be 
one's  self  with  Ruth,  the  way  she  seemed  to  like 
one  for  just  what  one  was.  He  had  always  felt 
more  at  ease  with  her  than  with  anyone  else,  but 
now  he  more  than  ever  had  the  feeling  that  her 
mind  was  loosened  from  the  things  that  held  the 
minds  of  most  of  the  women  he  knew.  It  was  a 
great  thing  not  to  have  those  holdbacks  in  talk 
ing  .with  a  friend,  to  be  freed  of  that  fear  of 
blundering  into  a  thing  that  would  be  misunder 
stood.  He  did  not  face  the  fact  that  that  was  just 
the  way  it  was  with  Amy,  that  there  was  con 
stantly  the  fear  of  saying  something  that  would 
better  have  been  left  unsaid.  But  he  was  thinking 
that  being  free  to  say  what  one  was  feeling  was 
like  drawing  a  long  breath. 

And  in  thinking  of  it  as  he  went  about  his  calls 
that  morning,  in  various  homes,  talking  with  a 
number  of  people,  it  occurred  to  him  that  many 
of  those  things  he  had  come  to  think,  things  of 


170  FIDELITY 

which  lie  did  not  often  try  to  talk  to  others,  he  had 
arrived  at  because  of  Euth.  It  was  amazing  how 
his  feeling  about  her,  thoughts  through  her,  had 
run  into  all  his  thinking.  It  even  occurred  to  him 
that  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  he  might  have  fallen 
into  accepting  many  things  more  or  less  as  the 
rest  of  the  town  did.  It  seemed  now  that  as  well 
as  having  caused  him  much  pain  she  had  brought 
rich  gain;  for  those  questionings  of  life,  that  re 
fusal  placidly  to  accept,  had  certainly  brought 
keener  satisfactions  than  he  could  have  had 
through  a  closer  companionship  with  facile  ac 
ceptors.  Euth  had  been  a  big  thing  in  his  life,  not 
only  in  his  heart,  but  to  his  mind. 

He  had  come  out  of  the  house  of  one  of  his  pa 
tients  and  was  standing  on  the  steps  talking  with 
the  woman  who  had  anxiously  followed  him  to  the 
door.  The  house  was  directly  across  the  street 
from  the  Lawrences'.  Edith  was  sitting  out  on 
the  porch ;  her  little  girl  of  eight  and  the  boy,  who 
was  younger,  were  with  her.  They  made  an  at 
tractive  picture. 

He  continued  his  reassuring  talk  to  the  woman 
whose  husband  was  ill,  but  he  was  at  the  same  time 
thinking  of  Euth's  eager  questionings  about  Edith, 
about  Edith's  children,  her  hunger  for  every  small 
est  thing  he  could  tell  her.  When  he  went  down 
to  his  car  Edith,  looking  up  and  seeing  him,  gayly 
waved  her  hand.  He  returned  the  salute  and 
stood  there  as  if  doing  something  to  the  car.  Sit- 


FIDELITY  171 

ting  there  in  the  morning  sunshine  with  her  two 
children  Edith  looked  the  very  picture  of  the 
woman  for  whom  things  had  gone  happily.  Life 
had  opened  its  pleasantest  ways  to  Edith.  He 
could  not  bring  himself  to  get  in  his  car  and  start 
away ;  he  could  not  get  rid  of  the  thought  of  what 
it  would  mean  to  Euth  if  Edith  would  go  to  see 
her,  could  not  banish  the  picture  of  Euth's  face  if 
Edith  were  to  walk  into  the  room.  And  because 
he  could  not  banish  it  he  suddenly  turned  abruptly 
from  his  car  and  started  across  the  street  and  up 
the  steps  to  the  porch. 

She  smiled  brightly  up  at  him,  holding  out  her 
hand.  i '  Coming  up  to  talk  to  me  I  How  nice ! ' ' 

He  pulled  up  a  chair,  bantering  with  the  chil 
dren. 

"I  know  what  you've  come  for,"  Edith  laughed 
gayly.  "You've  come  to  hear  about  how  lovely 
Amy  was  at  the  tea  yesterday.  You  want  to  know 
all  the  nice  things  people  are  saying  about 
her." 

His  face  puckered  as  it  did  when  he  was  per 
plexed  or  annoyed.  He  laughed  with  a  little  con 
straint  as  he  said :  i '  That  would  be  pleasant 
hearing,  I  admit.  But  it  was  something  else  I 
wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  just  now,  Edith. ' ' 

She  raised  her  brows  a  little  in  inquiry,  bending 
forward  slightly,  waiting,  her  eyes  touched  with 
the  anticipation  of  something  serious.  He  felt 
sure  his  tone  had  suggested  Euth  to  her;  that  in- 


172  FIDELITY 

dicated  to  him  that  Euth  had  been  much  in  her 
mind. 

i '  I  had  a  long  visit  with  Euth  last  night, ' '  he  be 
gan  quietly. 

She  did  not  speak,  bending  forward  a  little 
more,  her  eyes  upon  him  intently,  anxiously. 

''Edith!" 

"Yes,Deaue!" 

He  paused,  then  asked  simply:  " Edith,  Euth 
is  very  lonely.  Won't  you  go  to  see  her?" 

She  raised  her  chin  in  quick,  startled  way,  some 
emotion,  he  did  not  know  just  what,  breaking  over 
her  face. 

"I  thought  I'd  come  and  tell  you,  Edith,  how 
lonely — how  utterly  lonely — Euth  is,  because  I  felt 
if  you  understood  you  would  want  to  go  and  see 
her." 

Still  Edith  did  not  speak.  She  looked  as  though 
she  were  going  to  cry. 

"Euth's  had  a  hard  time,  Edith.  It's  been  no 
light  life  for  her — you  don't  have  to  do  more  than 
look  in  her  eyes  to  know  that.  I  wish  you  could 
have  heard  the  way  she  asked  about  you — poured 
out  questions  about  you.  She  loves  you  just  as 
she  always  did,  Edith.  She 's  sorrowed  for  you  all 
through  these  years." 

A  tear  brimmed  over  from  Edith's  blue  eyes  and 
rolled  slowly — unheeded — down  her  cheek.  His 
heart  warmed  to  her  and  he  took  hope  as  he 
watched  that  tear. 


FIDELITY  173 

"She  was  crazy  to  know  about  your  children. 
That's  been  a  grief  to  her,  Edith.  Ruth  should  be 
a  mother — you  know  that.  You  must  know  what  a 
mother  she  would  have  made.  If  you  were  to  take 
your  youngsters  to  see  her — "  He  broke  off  with 
a  laugh,  as  if  there  was  no  way  of  expressing  it. 

Edith  looked  away  from  him,  seemed  to  be  star 
ing  straight  into  a  rose  bush  at  the  side  of  the 
porch. 

"Couldn't  you  I"  he  gently  pressed. 

She  turned  to  him.  "I'd  like  to,  Deane,"  she 
said  simply,  "but," — her  dimmed  eyes  were 
troubled — "I  don't  see  how  I  could." 

"Why  not?"  he  pursued.  "It's  simple  enough 
— just  go  and  see  her.  We  might  go  together,  if 
that  would  seem  easier." 

She  was  pulling  at  a  bit  of  sewing  in  her  lap. 
"But,  Deane,  it  isn't  simple,"  she  began  hesi 
tatingly.  "It  isn't  just  one's  self.  There's  so 
ciety — the  whole  big  terrible  question.  If  it  were 
just  a  simple,  individual  matter, — why,  the  truth 
is  I'd  love  to  go  and  see  Euth.  If  it  were  just  a 
personal  thing — why  don't  you  know  that  I'd  for 
get  everything — except  that  she's  Euth?"  Her 
voice  choked  and  she  did  not  go  on,  but  was  fum 
bling  with  the  sewing  in  her  lap. 

He  hitched  his  chair  forward  anxiously,  con 
centrated  on  his  great  desire  to  say  it  right,  to 
win  Edith  for  Euth.  Edith  was  a  simple  sort  of 
being — really,  a  loving  being;  if  she  could  only 


174  FIDELITY 

detach  herself  from  what  she  pathetically  called 
the  whole  terrihle  question — if  he  could  just  make 
her  see  that  the  thing  she  wanted  to  do  was  the 
thing  to  do.  She  looked  up  at  him  out  of  big 
grieving  eyes,  as  if  wanting  to  be  convinced, 
wanting  the  way  opened  for  the  loving  thing  she 
would  like  to  do. 

"But,  Edith, "  he  began,  as  composedly  and 
gently  as  he  could,  for  she  was  so  much  a  child  in 
her  mentality  it  seemed  she  must  be  dealt  with 
gently  and  simply,  "is  it  so  involved,  after  all? 
Isn't  it,  more  than  anything  else,  just  that  simple, 
personal  matter  ?  Why  not  forget  everything  but 
the  personal  part  of  it?  Euth  is  back — lonely — in 
trouble.  Things  came  between  you  and  Ruth,  but 
that  was  a  long  time  ago  and  since  that  she's  met 
hard  things.  You're  not  a  vindictive  person; 
you're  a  loving  person.  Then  for  heaven's  sake 
why  wouldn't  you  go  and  see  her?" — it  was  im 
possible  to  keep  the  impatience  out  of  that  last. 

"I  know,"  she  faltered,  "but — society — " 

"Society!"  he  jeered.  "Forget  society,  Edith, 
and  be  just  a  human  being  1  If  you  can  forget — 
forgive — what  seemed  to  you  the  wrong  Euth  did 
you — if  your  heart  goes  out  to  her — then  what  else 
is  there  to  it?"  he  demanded  impatiently. 

'  '  But  you  see, ' ' — he  could  feel  her  reaching  out, 
as  if  thinking  she  must,  to  the  things  that  had  been 
said  to  her,  was  conscious  of  her  mother's  think 
ing  pushing  on  hers  as  she  fumbled,  "but  one  isn't 


FIDELITY  175 

free,  Deane.  Society  has  to  protect  itself.  What 
might  not  happen — if  it  didn't ?" 

He  tried  to  restrain  what  he  wanted  to  say  to 
that — keep  cool,  wise,  and  say  the  things  that 
would  get  Edith.  He  was  sure  that  Edith  wanted 
to  be  had ;  her  eyes  asked  him  to  overthrow  those 
things  that  had  been  fastened  on  her,  to  free  her 
so  that  the  simple,  human  approach  was  the  only 
one  there  was  to  it,  justify  her  in  believing  one 
dared  be  as  kind,  as  natural  and  simple  and  real 
as  one  wanted  to  be.  He  was  sure  that  in  Edith's 
heart  love  for  her  friend  was  more  real  than  any 
sense  of  duty  to  society. 

"But  after  all  what  is  society,  Edith  1"  he  be 
gan  quietly.  "Just  a  collection  of  individuals, 
isn't  it?  Why  must  it  be  so  much  harder  than  the 
individuals  comprising  it?  If  it  is  that — then 
there's  something  wrong  with  it,  wouldn't  you 
think?" 

He  looked  around  at  the  sound  of  a  screen  door 
closing.  Edith's  mother  had  stepped  out  on  the 
porch.  He  knew  by  her  startled  look,  her  quick, 
keen  glance  at  him,  that  she  had  heard  his  last 
words.  She  stepped  forward  holding  up  her 
hands  in  mock  dismay,  with  a  laughing:  "What 
a  large,  solemn  issue  for  an  early  morning  con 
versation  !" 

Deane  tried  to  laugh  but  he  was  not  good  at  dis 
sembling  and  he  was  finding  it  hard  to  conceal  his 
annoyance  at  the  interruption.  Talking  to  Mrs. 


176  FIDELITY 

Lawrence  was  very  different  from  talking  to 
Edith.  Edith,  against  her  own  loving  impulses, 
tried  to  think  what  she  thought  she  ought  to  think ; 
Mrs.  Lawrence  had  hardened  into  the  things  she 
thought  should  be  thought,  and  at  once  less  loving 
and  more  intelligent  than  Edith,  she  was  fixed 
where  her  daughter  was  uncertain,  complacent 
where  Edith  was  troubled.  She  was  one  of  those 
women  who,  very  kind  to  people  they  accept,  have 
no  tendrils  of  kindness  running  out  to  those  whom 
they  do  not  approve.  Her  qualities  of  heart  did 
not  act  outside  the  circle  of  her  endorsement. 
With  the  exception  of  Euth's  brother  Cyrus,  no 
one  in  the  town  had  been  harder  about  her  than 
Edith's  mother.  He  had  all  the  time  felt  that,  let 
alone,  Edith  would  have  gone  back  to  Euth. 

He  had  risen  and  pulled  up  a  chair  for  Mrs. 
Lawrence  and  now  stood  there  fumbling  with  his 
hat,  as  if  about  to  leave.  It  seemed  to  him  he 
might  as  well. 

"Why,  my  dears !"  exclaimed  the  older  woman 
with  a  sort  of  light  dryness,  "pray  don't  let  me 
feel  I  have  broken  up  a  philosophic  discussion." 

"Deane  was  asking  me  to  go  and  see  Euth, 
mother,"  said  Edith,  simply  and  not  without  dig 
nity. 

He  saw  her  flush,  her  quick  look  up  at  him,  and 
then  the  slight  tightening  of  her  lips. 

"And  doesn't  it  occur  to  Deane,"  she  asked 


FIDELITY  177 

pleasantly,  "that  that  is  rather  a  strange  thing  to 
ask  of  you? " 

"She  is  very  lonely,  Deane  says/'  said  Edith 
tremulously. 

Mrs.  Lawrence  was  threading  a  needle.  i '  I  pre 
sume  so,"  she  answered  quietly. 

Deane  felt  the  blood  rising  in  him.  Somehow 
that  quiet  reply  angered  him  as  no  sharp  retort 
could  have  done.  He  turned  to  Edith,  rather 
pointedly  leaving  her  mother  out.  "Well,"  he 
asked  bluntly,  i '  will  you  go  ? ' ' 

Edith's  eyes  widened.  She  looked  frightened. 
She  stole  a  look  at  her  mother,  who  had  serenely 
begun  upon  her  embroidery. 

"Why,  Deane  I"  laughed  the  mother,  as  if  toler 
antly  waving  aside  a  preposterous  proposal,  "how 
absurd!  Of  course  Edith  won't  go!  How  could 
she  f  Why  should  she  V ' 

He  made  no  reply,  fearing  to  let  himself  express 
the  things  which — disappointed — he  was  feeling. 

Mrs.  Lawrence  looked  up.  "If  you  will  just 
cast  your  mind  back,"  she  said,  her  voice  remain 
ing  pleasant  though  there  was  a  sting  in  it  now, 
"to  the  way  Euth  treated  Edith,  I  think  it  will 
come  home  to  you,  Deane,  that  you  are  asking  a 
rather  absurd  thing." 

"But  Edith  says,"— he  made  a  big  effort  to 
speak  as  quietly  as  she  did — "that  that  personal 
part  of  it  is  all  right  with  her.  She  says  that  she 


178  FIDELITY 

would  really  like  to  go  and  see  Euth,  but  doesn't 
think  she  can — on  account  of  society. ' ' 

Mrs.  Lawrence  flushed  a  little  at  his  tone  on  that 
last,  but  she  seemed  quite  unruffled  as  she  asked: 
i '  And  you  see  no  point  in  that  1 ' ' 

He  had  sat  down  on  the  railing  of  the  porch. 
He  leaned  back  against  a  pillar,  turning  a  little 
away  from  them  as  he  said  with  a  laugh  not  free 
of  bitterness:  "I  don't  believe  I  quite  get  this 
idea  about  society."  Abruptly  he  turned  back  to 
Mrs.  Lawrence.  "What  is  it?  A  collection  of  in 
dividuals  for  mutual  benefit  and  self -protection,  I 
gather.  Protection  against  what?  Their  own 
warmest  selves!  The  most  real  things  in  them?" 

Mrs.  Lawrence  colored,  though  she  was  smiling 
composedly  enough.  Edith  was  not  smiling.  He 
saw  her  anxious  look  over  at  her  mother,  as  if  ex 
pecting  her  to  answer  that,  and  yet — this  was  what 
her  eyes  made  him  think — secretly  hoping  she 
couldn't. 

But  Mrs.  Lawrence  maintained  her  manner  of 
gracious,  rather  amused  tolerance  with  an  absurd 
hot-headedness,  perversity,  on  his  part.  "Oh, 
come  now,  Deane,"  she  laughed,  "we're  not  going 
to  get  into  an  absurd  discussion,  are  we?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Lawrence,"  he  re 
torted  sharply,  "but  I  don't  think  it  an  absurd  dis 
cussion.  I  don't  consider  a  thing  that  involves  the 
happiness  of  as  fine  a  human  being  as  Euth  Hol 
land  an  absurd  thing  to  discuss!" 


FIDELITY  179 

She  laid  down  her  work.  "Ruth  Holland,"  she 
began  very  quietly,  "is  a  human  being  who  self 
ishly — basely — took  her  own  happiness,  leaving 
misery  for  others.  She  outraged  society  as  com 
pletely  as  a  woman  could  outrage  it.  She  was  a 
thief,  really, — stealing  from  the  thing  that  was 
protecting  her,  taking  all  the  privileges  of  a  thing 
she  was  a  traitor  to.  She  was  not  only  what  we 
call  a  bad  woman,  she  was  a  hypocrite.  More  than 
that,  she  was  outrageously  unfaithful  to  her  dear 
est  friend — to  Edith  here  who  loved  and  trusted 
her.  Having  no  respect  for  marriage  herself,  she 
actually  had  the  effrontery — to  say  nothing  of  the 
lack  of  fine  feeling — to  go  to  the  altar  with  Edith 
the  very  night  that  she  herself  outraged  marriage. 
I  don't  know,  Deane,  how  a  woman  could  do  a 
worse  thing  than  that.  The  most  pernicious  kind 
of  woman  is  not  the  one  who  bears  the  marks  of 
the  bad  woman  upon  her.  It's  the  woman  like 
Euth  Holland,  who  appears  to  be  what  she  is  nqt, 
who  deceives,  plays  a  false  part.  If  you  can't  see 
that  society  must  close  in  against  a  woman  like 
that  then  all  I  can  say,  my  dear  Deane,  is  that  you 
don't  see  very  straight.  You  jeer  about  society, 
but  society  is  nothing  more  than  life  as  we  have 
arranged  it.  It  is  an  institution.  One  living 
within  it  must  keep  the  rules  of  that  institution. 
One  who  defies  it — deceives  it — must  be  shut  out 
from  it.  So  much  we  are  forced  to  do  in  self-de 
fence.  We  owe  that  to  the  people  who  are  trying 


180  FIDELITY 

to  live  decently,  to  be  faithful.  Life,  as  we  have 
arranged  it,  must  be  based  on  confidence.  We 
have  to  keep  that  confidence.  We  have  to  punish 
a  violation  of  it."  She  took  up  her  sewing  again. 
"Your  way  of  looking  at  it  is  not  a  very  large 
way,  Deane,"  she  concluded  pleasantly. 

Edith  had  settled  back  in  her  chair — accepting, 
though  her  eyes  were  grieving.  It  was  that  com 
bination  which,  perhaps  even  more  than  the  words 
of  her  mother,  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  hold 
back. 

"Perhaps  not/'  he  said;  "not  what  you  would 
call  a  large  way  of  looking  at  it.  But  do  you 
know,  Mrs.  Lawrence,  I'm  not  sure  that  I  care  for 
that  large  way  of  looking  at  it.  I'm  not  sure  that 
I  care  a  great  deal  about  an  institution  that 
smothers  the  kindly  things  in  people — as  you  are 
making  this  do  in  Edith.  It  sometimes  occurs  to 
me  that  life  as  we  have  arranged  it  is  a  rather  un 
satisfactory  arrangement.  I'm  not  sure  that  an 
arrangement  of  life  which  doesn't  leave  place  for 
the  most  real  things  in  life  is  going  to  continue 
forever.  Euth  was  driven  into  a  corner  and 
forced  to  do  things  she  herself  hated  and  suffered 
for — it  was  this  same  arrangement  of  life  forced 
that  on  her,  you  know.  You  talk  of  marriage.  But 
you  must  know  there  was  no  real  marriage  between 
Marion  Averley  and  Stuart  Williams.  And  I 
don't  believe  you  can  deny  that  there  is  a  real 


•  FIDELITY  181 

marriage  between  him  and  Euth  Holland."  He 
had  risen  and  now  moved  a  little  toward  the  steps. 
"So  you  see  I  don't  believe  I  care  much  for  your 
1  society,'  Mrs.  Lawrence,"  he  laughed  shortly. 
' '  This  looks  to  me  like  a  pretty  clear  case  of  life 
against  society — and  I  see  things  just  straight 
enough  that  life  itself  strikes  me  as  rather  more 
important  than  your  precious  ' arrangement'  of 
it!" 

That  did  not  bring  the  color  to  Mrs.  Lawrence's 
face;  there  seemed  no  color  at  all  there  when 
Deane  finished  speaking.  She  sat  erect,  her  hands 
folded  on  her  sewing,  looking  at  him  with 
strangely  bright  eyes.  When  she  spoke  it  was 
with  a  certain  metallic  pleasantness.  * '  Why,  very 
well,  Deane,"  she  said;  "one  is  at  perfect  liberty 
to  choose,  isn't  one?  And  I  think  it  quite  right 
to  declare  one's  self,  as  you  have  just  done,  that 
we  may  know  who  is  of  us  and  who  is  not. ' '  She 
smiled — a  smile  that  seemed  definitely  to  shut  him 
out. 

He  looked  at  Edith;  her  eyes  were  down;  he 
could  see  that  her  lips  trembled.  "Good-by,"  he 
said. 

Mrs.  Lawrence  bowed  slightly  and  took  up  her 
sewing. 

"Good-by,  Edith,"  he  added  gently. 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  he  saw  then  why  she 
she  had  been  looking  down.  "Good-by,  Deane," 


182  FIDELITY 

she  said  a  little  huskily,  her  eyes  all  clouded  with 
tears.  ' '  Though  how  absurd ! ' '  she  quickly  added 
with  a  rather  tremulous  laugh.  "We  shall  be  see 
ing  you  as  usual,  of  course."  But  it  was  more 
appeal  than  declaration. 


CHAPTEE  SEVENTEEN 

Euth  was  different  after  her  talk  with  Deane 
that  night.  Ted  felt  the  change  in  her  when  he 
went  up  to  say  goodnight.  The  constraint  be 
tween  them  seemed  somehow  to  have  fallen  away. 
Euth  was  natural  now — just  Euth,  he  told  himself, 
and  felt  that  talking  to  Deane  had  done  her  good. 
He  lingered  to  chat  with  her  awhile — of  the  ar 
rangements  for  the  night,  various  little  things 
about  the  house,  just  the  things  they  naturally 
would  talk  of;  his  feeling  of  embarrassment,  dif 
fidence,  melted  quite  away  before  her  quiet  sim 
plicity,  her  warm  naturalness.  She  had  seemed 
timid  all  day — holding  back.  Now  she  seemed 
just  quietly  to  take  her  place.  He  had  been  afraid 
of  doing  or  saying  something  that  would  hurt 
her,  that  had  kept  him  from  being  natural, 
he  knew.  But  now  he  forgot  about  that.  And 
when  Euth  put  her  hands  up  on  his  shoulders  and 
lifted  her  face  to  kiss  him  goodnight  he  suddenly 
knew  how  many  lonely  nights  there  had  been. 
"I'm  so  glad  I've  got  you  back,  Ted,"  she  said; 
"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  heaps  of  things. " 

And  Ted,  as  he  went  to  bed,  was  thinking  that 
there  were  heaps  of  things  he  wanted  to  talk  to 
Euth  about.  He  hadn't  had  much  of  anybody  to 

183 


184  FIDELITY 

talk  to  about  the  things  one  does  talk  to  one's  own 
folks  about.  His  father  had  been  silent  and  queer 
the  last  couple  of  years,  and  somehow  one 
wouldn't  think  of  " talking "  to  Harriett.  He  and 
Euth  had  always  hit  it  off,  he  told  himself.  He 
was  glad  she  had  found  her  feet,  as  he  thought  of 
it;  evidently  talking  with  Deane  had  made  her 
feel  more  at  home.  Deane  was  a  bully  sort! 
After  he  had  fallen  into  a  light  sleep  he  awakened 
and  there  came  all  freshly  the  consciousness  that 
Euth  was  back,  asleep  in  her  old  room.  It  made 
him  feel  so  good;  he  stretched  out  and  settled  for 
sleep  with  satisfaction,  drowsily  thinking  that 
there  were  heaps  of  things  he  wanted  to  talk  to 
Euth  about. 

Euth,  too,  was  settling  to  sleep  with  more  calm, 
something  nearer  peace  than  it  had  seemed  just 
a  little  while  before  she  was  going  to  find  in  her 
father's  house.  Talking  with  Deane  took  her  in 
to  something  from  which  she  had  long  felt  shut 
out.  It  was  like  coming  on  a  camp  fire  after  be 
ing  overawed  by  too  long  a  time  in  the  forest — 
warmth  and  light  and  cheerful  crackling  after  lone 
liness  in  austere  places.  Dear  Deane !  he  was  al 
ways  so  good  to  her;  he  always  helped.  It  was 
curious  about  Deane — about  Deane  and  her. 
There  seemed  a  strange  openness — she  could  not 
think  of  it  any  other  way — between  them.  Things 
she  lived  through,  in  which  he  had  no  part,  drew 
her  to  him,  swung  her  back  to  him.  There  was 


FIDELITY  185 

something  between  his  spirit  and  hers  that  seemed 
to  make  him  part  even  of  experiences  she  had  had 
with  another  man,  as  if  things  of  the  emotions, 
even  though  not  shared,  drew  them  together 
through  the  spirit.  Very  deeply  she  hoped  that 
Deane  would  be  happy.  She  wished  she  might 
meet  his  wife,  but  probably  she  wouldn't.  She 
quickly  turned  from  that  thought,  wanting  to  stay 
by  the  camp  fire.  Anyway,  Deane  was  her  friend. 
She  rested  in  that  thought  of  having  a  friend — 
someone  to  talk  to  about  things  small  and  droll, 
about  things  large  and  mysterious.  Thoughts 
needed  to  be  spoken.  It  opened  something  in  one 
to  speak  them.  With  Stuart  she  had  been  careful 
not  to  talk  of  certain  things,  fearing  to  see  him 
sink  into  that  absorption,  gloom,  she  had  come  to 
dread. 

She  cried  a  little  after  she  had  crept  into  her 
bed — her  own  old  bed ;  but  they  were  just  tears  of 
feeling,  not  of  desolation.  The  oak  tree  was  tap 
ping  against  the  house,  the  breeze,  carrying  famil 
iar  scents,  blew  through  the  room.  She  was  back 
home.  All  the  sadness  surrounding  her  home 
coming  could  not  keep  out  the  sweet  feeling  of  be 
ing  back  that  stole  through  her  senses. 

Next  morning  she  went  about  the  house  with 
new  poise ;  she  was  quiet,  but  it  was  of  a  different 
quality  from  the  quiet  of  the  day  before.  Flora 
Copeland  found  herself  thinking  less  about  main 
taining  her  carefully  thought  out  manner  toward 


186  FIDELITY 

Euth.  She  told  herself  that  Euth  did  not  seem 
like  "that  kind  of  a  woman/7  She  would  forget 
the  "difficult  situation''  and  find  herself  just  talk 
ing  with  Euth — about  the  death  of  her  sister 
Mary 's  little  girl,  of  her  niece  who  was  about  to  be 
married.  There  was  something  about  Euth  that 
made  one  slip  into  talking  to  her  about  things  one 
was  feeling;  and  something  in  the  quiet  light  of 
her  tired  sweet  eyes  made  one  forget  about  not 
being  more  than  courteous.  Even  Laura  Abbott, 
the  nurse,  found  herself  talking  naturally  to  this 
Euth  Holland,  this  woman  who  lived  with  another 
woman's  husband,  who  was  more  "talked  about" 
than  any  woman  in  the  town  had  ever  been.  But 
somehow  a  person  just  forgot  what  she  really  was, 
she  told  a  friend;  she  wasn't  at  all  like  you'd  ex 
pect  that  kind  of  a  person  to  be.  Though  of 
course  there  were  terribly  embarrassing  things — 
like  not  knowing  what  to  call  her. 

Between  Euth  and  Harriett  things  went  much 
better  than  they  had  the  day  before.  Euth  seemed 
so  much  herself  when  they  met  that  afternoon  that 
unconsciously  Harriett  emerged  from  her  uncer 
tainty,  from  that  fumbling  manner  of  the  day  be 
fore.  The  things  holding  them  apart  somehow 
fell  back  before  the  things  drawing  them  together. 
They  were  two  sisters  and  their  father  was  dying. 
The  doctor  had  just  been  there  and  said  he  did  not 
believe  Mr.  Holland  could  live  another  day.  They 
were  together  when  he  told  them  that;  for  the 


FIDELITY  187 

moment,  at  least,  it  melted  other  things  away. 

They  stood  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  talking  of 
things  of  common  concern — the  efficiency  of  the 
nurse,  of  Ted,  who  had  been  with  his  father  more 
than  any  of  the  rest  of  them,  for  whom  they  feared 
it  would  be  very  hard  when  the  moment  came. 
Then,  after  a  little  pause  made  intimate  by  feel 
ing  shared,  Harriett  told  when  she  would  be  back, 
adding,  "But  you'll  see  to  it  that  I'm  telephoned 
at  once  if — if  I  should  be  wanted,  won't  you, 
Buth?" — as  one  depending  on  this  other  more 
than  on  anyone  else.  Euth  only  answered  gently, 
"Yes,  Harriett,"  but  she  felt  warmed  in  her  heart. 
She  had  been  given  something  to  do.  She  was  de 
pended  on.  She  was  not  left  out. 

She  sat  beside  her  father  during  the  hour  that 
the  nurse  had  to  be  relieved.  Very  strongly,  won 
derfully,  she  had  a  feeling  that  her  father  knew 
she  was  there,  that  he  wanted  her  there.  In  the 
strange  quiet  of  that  hour  she  seemed  to  come 
close  to  him,  as  if  things  holding  them  apart  while 
he  was  of  life  had  fallen  away  now  that  he  no 
longer  was  life-bound.  It  was  very  real  to  her. 
It  was  communion.  Things  she  could  not  have  ex 
pressed  seemed  to  be  flowing  out  to  him,  and 
things  he  could  not  have  understood  seemed  reach 
ing  him  now.  It  was  as  if  she  was  going  with  him 
right  up  to  the  border — a  long  way  past  the  things 
of  life  that  drove  them  apart.  The  nurse,  com 
ing  back  to  resume  duty,  was  arrested,  moved,  by 


188  FIDELITY 

Buth's  face.  She  spoke  gently  in  thanking  her, 
her  own  face  softened.  Flora  Copeland,  meeting 
Buth  in  the  hall,  paused,  somehow  held,  and  then, 
quite  forgetful  of  the  manner  she  was  going  to 
maintain  toward  Euth,  impulsively  called  after 
her:  "Are  you  perfectly  comfortable  in  your 
room,  Euth?  Don't  you — shan't  I  bring  in  one  of 
the  big  easy  chairs  1 ' ' 

Euth  said  no,  she  liked  her  own  little  chair,  but 
she  said  it  very  gently,  understanding;  she  had 
again  that  feeling  of  being  taken  in,  the  feeling 
that  warmed  her  heart. 

She  went  in  her  room  and  sat  quietly  in  her  little 
chair ;  and  what  had  been  a  pent  up  agony  in  her 
heart  flowed  out  in  open  sorrowing:  for  her 
mother,  who  was  not  there  to  sit  in  her  room  with 
her;  for  her  father,  who  was  dying.  But  it  was 
releasing  sorrowing,  the  sorrowing  that  makes 
one  one  with  the  world,  drawing  one  into  the 
whole  life  of  human  feeling,  the  opened  heart  that 
brings  one  closer  to  all  opened  hearts.  It  was  the 
sadness  that  softens;  such  sadness  as  finds  its 
own  healing  in  enriched  feeling.  It  made  her 
feel  very  near  her  father  and  mother;  she  loved 
them;  she  felt  that  they  loved  her.  She  had  hurt 
them — terribly  hurt  them;  but  it  all  seemed  be 
yond  that  now ;  they  understood ;  and  she  was  Euth 
and  they  loved  her.  It  was  as  if  the  way  had 
been  cleared  between  her  and  them.  She  did  not 
feel  shut  in  alone. 


FIDELITY  189 

Ted  hesitated  when  he  came  to  her  door  a  little 
later,  drew  back  before  the  tender  light  of  her 
illumined  face.  It  did  not  seem  a  time  to  break  in 
on  her.  But  she  held  out  her  hand  with  a  little 
welcoming  gesture  and,  though  strangely  subdued, 
smiled  lovingly  at  him  as  she  said,  "Come  on  in, 
Ted." 

Something  that  the  boy  felt  in  her  mood  made 
him  scowl  anew  at  the  thing  he  had  to  tell  her. 
He  went  over  to  the  window,  his  back  to  her,  and 
was  snapping  his  finger  against  the  pane. 
"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  gruffly,  "Cy  gets  in  to 
day.  Just  had  a  wire. ' ' 

Euth  drew  back,  as  one  who  has  left  exposed  a 
place  that  can  be  hurt  draws  back  when  hurt 
threatens.  Ted  felt  it — that  retreating  within 
herself,  and  said  roughly :  i  l  Much  anybody  cares ! 
Between  you  and  me,  I  don't  think  father  would 
care  so  very  much,  either. ' ' 

"Ted!"  she  remonstrated  in  elder  sister  fash 
ion. 

"Cy's  got  a  hard  heart,  Euth,"  he  said  with  a 
sudden  gravity  that  came  strangely  through  his 
youthfulness. 

Euth  did  not  reply ;  she  did  not  want  to  say  what 
she  felt  about  Cy 's  heart.  But  after  a  moment  the 
domestic  side  of  it  turned  itself  to  her.  "Will 
Louise  come  with  him,  Ted?" 

"No,"  he  answered  shortly. 

His  tone  made  her  look  at  him  in  inquiry,  but  he 


190  FIDELITY 

had  turned  his  back  to  her  again.  "I  was  just 
wondering  about  getting  their  room  ready,"  she 
said. 

For  a  moment  Ted  did  not  speak,  did  not  turn 
toward  her.  Then,  "We  don't  have  to  bother  get 
ting  any  room  ready  for  Cy,"  he  said,  with  a 
scoffing  little  laugh. 

Euth's  hand  went  up  to  her  throat — a  curious 
movement,  as  if  in  defense.  "What  do  you  mean, 
Ted  1"  she  asked  in  low  quick  voice. 

Ted's  finger  was  again  snapping  the  window 
pane.  Once  more  he  laughed  disdainfully.  ' '  Our 
esteemed  brother  is  going  to  the  hotel,"  he 
jeered. 

As  Euth  did  not  speak  he  looked  around.  He 
could  not  bear  her  face.  ' '  Don 't  you  care,  Euth, ' ' 
he  burst  out.  "Why,  what's  the  difference?"  he 
went  on  scoffingly.  "The  hotel's  a  good  place. 
He  '11  get  along  all  right  down  there — and  it  makes 
it  just  so  much  the  better  for  us." 

But  even  then  Euth  could  not  speak ;  it  had  come 
in  too  tender  a  moment,  had  found  her  too  ex 
posed;  she  could  only  cower  back.  Then  pride 
broke  through.  "Cyrus  needn't  go  to  the  hotel, 
Ted.  If  he  can't  stay  in  the  same  house  with  me 
— even  when  father  is  dying — then  I'll  go  some 
where  else." 

"You'll  not!"  he  blazed,  with  a  savagery  that 
at  once  startled  and  wonderfully  comforted  her. 
"  If  Cy  wants  to  be  a  fool,  let  him  be  a  fool !  If  he 


FIDELITY  191 

can't  act  decent — then  let  him  do  what  he  pleases 
- — or  go  to  the  devil ! ' ' 

She  murmured  something  in  remonstrance,  but 
flooded  with  gratefulness  for  the  very  thing  she 
tried  to  protest  against.  And  then  even  that  was 
struck  out.  She  had  brought  about  this  quarrel, 
this  feeling,  between  the  two  brothers.  Ted's  an 
tagonism  against  Cyrus,  comforting  to  her,  might 
work  harm  to  Ted.  Those  were  the  things  she 
did.  That  was  what  came  through  her. 

The  comfort,  communion,  peace  of  a  few  min 
utes  before  seemed  a  mockery.  Out  of  her  great 
longing  she  had  deluded  herself.  Now  she  was 
cast  back;  now  she  knew.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
only  been  called  out  in  order  to  be  struck  back. 
And  it  seemed  that  Ted,  whom  she  had  just  found 
again,  she  must  either  lose  or  harm.  And  the 
shame  of  it ! — children  not  coming  together  under 
their  father's  roof  when  he  was  dying!  Even 
death  could  not  break  the  bitterness  down.  It 
made  her  know  just  how  it  was — just  where  she 
stood.  And  she  thought  of  the  town's  new  talk 
because  of  this. 

1 1 It's  pretty  bad,  isn't  it,  Ted?"  she  said  finally, 
looking  up  to  him  with  heavy  eyes. 

Ted  flushed.  "Cy  makes  it  worse  than  it  need 
be,"  he  muttered. 

"But  it  is  pretty  bad,  isn't  it?"  she  repeated  in 
a  voice  there  was  little  life  in.  "It  was  about  as 
bad  as  it  could  be  for  you  all,  wasn't  it?" 


192  FIDELITY 

"Well,  Buth,"  he  began  diffidently,  "of  course 
— of  course  this  house  hasn't  been  a  very  cheerful 
place  since  you  went  away. ' ' 

"No,"  she  murmured,  "of  course  not."  She 
sat  there  dwelling  upon  that,  forming  a  new  pic 
ture  of  just  what  it  had  been.  '  '  It  really  made  a 
big  difference,  did  it,  Ted? — even  for  you?"  She 
asked  it  very  simply,  as  one  asking  a  thing  in 
order  to  know  the  truth. 

Ted  sat  down  on  the  bed.  He  was  shuffling  his 
feet  a  little,  embarrassed,  but  his  face  was  finely 
serious,  as  if  this  were  a  grave  thing  of  which  it 
was  right  they  talk. 

"Of  course  I  was  a  good  deal  of  a  kid,  Euth," 
he  began.  "And  yet — "  He  halted,  held  by 
kindness. 

"Yes?"  she  pressed,  as  if  wanting  to  get  him 
past  kindness. 

' l  Well,  yes,  Euth,  it  was — rather  bad.  I  minded 
on  account  of  the  fellows,  you  see.  I  knew  they 
were  talking  and — "  Again  he  stopped;  his  face 
had  reddened.  Her  face  too  colored  up  at 
that. 

"And  then  of  course  home — you  know  it  had  al 
ways  been  so  jolly  here  at  home — was  a  pretty  dif 
ferent  place,  Euth,"  he  took  it  up  gently.  "With 
Cy  charging  around,  and  mother  and  father  so — 
different." 

"And  they  were  different,  were  they,  Ted?" 
she  asked  quietly. 


FIDELITY  193 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "  Why,  yes,  Euth, 
they  certainly  were — different." 

Silence  fell  between  them,  separately  dwelling 
upon  that. 

"Just  how— different!"  Euth  asked,  for  it 
seemed  he  was  not  going  on. 

"  Why — mother  stopped  going  out,  and  of  course 
that  made  her  all  different.  You  know  what  a  lot 
those  parties  and  doings  meant  to  mother." 

She  did  not  at  once  speak,  her  face  working. 
Then:  "I'm  sorry,"  she  choked.  "Need  she  have 
done  that,  Ted  1 ' '  she  added  wistfully  after  a  mo 
ment. 

He  looked  at  her  with  that  fine  seriousness  that 
made  him  seem  older  than  he  was — and  finer  than 
she  had  known.  "Well,  I  don't  know,  Euth;  you 
know  you  don't  feel  very  comfortable  if  you  think 
people  are — talking.  It  makes  you  feel  sort  of — 
out  of  it ;  as  if  there  was  something  different  about 
you." 

"And  father!"  she  urged,  her  voice  quiet, 
strangely  quiet.  She  was  sitting  very  still,  look 
ing  intently  at  Ted. 

"Well,  father  rather  dropped  out  of  it,  too,"  he 
went  on,  his  voice  gentle  as  if  it  would  make  less 
hard  what  it  was  saying.  "He  and  mother  just 
seemed  to  want  to  draw  back  into  their  shells.  I 
think — "  He  stopped,  then  said:  "I  guess  you 
really  want  to  know,  Euth ;  it — it  did  make  a  big 
difference  in  father.  I  think  it  went  deeper  than 


194  FIDELITY 

you  may  have  known — and  maybe  it 's  only  fair  to 
Mm  you  should  know.  It  did  make  a  difference; 
I  think  it  made  a  difference  even  in  business. 
Maybe  that  seems  queer,  but  don't  you  know  when 
a  person  doesn't  feel  right  about  things  he  doesn't 
get  on  very  well  with  people?  Father  got  that 
way.  He  didn't  seem  to  want  to  be  with  people." 

She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  at  that.  "Business 
hasn't  gone  very  well,  has  it,  Ted?"  she  asked 
after  a  moment  of  silence,  still  not  looking  up. 

"Pretty  bad.  And  of  course  that  gets  Cy,"  he 
added. 

She  nodded.  "I  guess  there's  a  good  deal  to  be 
said  on  Cy's  side,"  she  murmured  after  a  little, 
her  hands  working  and  her  voice  not  steady. 

Ted  grunted  something  disdainful,  then  mut 
tered:  "He  played  things  up  for  all  they  were 
worth.  Don't  you  think  he  ever  missed  any 
thing!" 

"Was  that  why  Cy  left  town,  Ted?"  Euth  asked, 
speaking  all  the  while  in  that  low,  strange  voice. 

' '  Oh,  he  claims  so, "  scoffed  Ted.  ' '  But  he  can 't 
make  me  believe  any  family  humiliation  would 
have  made  him  leave  town  if  he  hadn't  had  a  bet 
ter  thing  somewhere  else.  But  of  course  he  says 
that.  That  it  was  too  hard  for  him  and  Louise ! 
Too  bad  about  that  little  doll-face,  isn't  it!" 

Euth  made  a  gesture  of  remonstrance,  but  the 
boyish  partisanship  brought  the  tears  she  had 
until  then  been  able  to  hold  back. 


FIDELITY  195 

Ted  rose.  And  then  lie  hesitated,  as  if  not  want 
ing  to  leave  it  like  this.  "Well,  Enth,  I  can  tell 
you  one  thing/'  he  said  gently,  a  little  bashfully; 
"with  all  Cy's  grand  talk  about  the  wrong  done 
mother  and  father,  neither  of  them  ever  loved  him 
the  way  they  loved  you." 

"Oh,  did  they,  Ted?"  she  cried,  and  all  the  held 
back  feeling  broke  through,  suffusing  her.  ' '  They 
did? — in  spite  of  everything?  Tell  me  about  that, 
Ted!  Tell  me  about  it!" 

"Mother  used  to  talk  a  lot  to  me,"  he  said. 
"She  was  always  coming  into  my  room  and  talk 
ing  to  me  about  you." 

"Oh,  was  she,  Ted?"  she  cried  again,  feeling 
breaking  over  her  face  in  waves.  "She  did  talk 
about  me  ?  What  did  she  say  ?  Tell  me ! ' ' 

"Just  little  things,  mostly.  Telling  about 
things  you  had  said  and  done  when  you  were  a 
kid;  remembering  what  you'd  worn  here  and. there 
— who  you'd  gone  with.  Oh, — you  know;  just  lit 
tle  things. 

"Of  course,"  he  went  on,  Euth  leaning  forward, 
hanging  on  his  words,  "I  was  a  good  deal  of  a  kid 
then;  she  didn't  talk  to  me  much  about  the — seri 
ous  part  of  it.  Maybe  that  was  the  reason  she 
liked  to  talk  to  me — because  she  could  just  talk 
about  the  little  things — old  things.  Though  once 
or  twice — " 

"Yes,  Ted?"  she  breathed,  as  he  paused  there. 

"Well,  she  did  say  things  to  me,  too.    I  remem- 


196  FIDELITY 

ber  once  she  said,  'It  wasn't  like  Euth.  Some 
thing  terrible  happened.  She  didn't  know  what 
she  was  doing.'  " 

Euth's  hands  were  pressed  tight  together;  un 
heeded  tears  were  falling  on  them. 

"And  she  used  to  worry  about  you,  Euth. 
When  it  was  cold  and  she'd  come  into  my  room 
with  an  extra  cover  she  'd  say — '  I  wish  I  knew  that 
my  girl  was  warm  enough  tonight.'  " 

At  that  Euth's  face  went  down  in  her  hands  and 
she  was  sobbing. 

"I  don't  know  what  I'm  talking  like  this  for!" 
muttered  the  boy  angrily.  "Making  you  feel  so 
bad!" 

She  shook  her  head,  but  for  a  little  could  not 
look  up.  Then  she  choked :  ' '  No,  I  want  to  know. 
Never  mind  how  it  hurts,  I  want  to  know. ' '  And 
then,  when  she  had  controlled  herself  a  little  more 
she  said,  simply:  "I  didn't  know  it  was  like  that. 
I  didn't  know  mother  felt — like  that." 

"She'd  start  to  write  to  you,  and  then  lots  of 
times  she  wouldn't  seem  to  know  how.  She 
wanted  to  write  to  you  lots  more  than  she  did. 
But  I  don't  know,  Euth,  mother  was  queer.  She 
seemed  sort  of  bewildered.  She — wasn't  herself. 
She  was  just  kind  of  powerless  to  do  anything 
about  things.  She  'd  come  in  this  room  a  lot.  Sit 
in  here  by  herself.  One  of  the  last  days  mother 
was  around  she  called  me  in  here  and  she  had  that 
dress  you  wore  to  Edith  Lawrence's  wedding 


FIDELITY  197 

spread  out  on  the  bed  and  was — oh,  just  kind  of 
fussing  with  it.  And  the  reason  she  called  me  in 
was  that  she  wanted  to  know  if  I  remembered  how 
pretty  you  looked  in  it  that  night. ' ' 

But  Euth  had  thrown  out  a  hand  for  him  to  stop, 
had  covered  her  face  as  if  shutting  something  out. 
"  Oh,  I  'm  sorry,  Euth ! ' '  murmured  Ted.  "  I  >m  a 
fool!"  he  cried  angrily.  But  after  a  minute  he 
added  haltingly,  "And  yet — you  did  want  to  know, 
and — maybe  it's  fairer  to  mother,  Euth.  Maybe 
— "  but  he  could  not  go  on  and  went  over  and 
stood  by  the  window,  not  wanting  to  leave  her  like 
that,  not  knowing  what  to  do. 

"Well,  one  thing  I  want  you  to  know,  Euth," 
he  said,  as  he  did  finally  turn  to  the  door.  "I've 
been  talking  along  about  how  hard  it  was  for  the 
rest  of  us,  but  don't  for  a  minute  think  I  don't  see 
how  terrible  it  was  for  you.  I  get  that,  all  right. ' ' 

She  looked  up  at  him,  wanting  to  speak,  but 
dumb ;  dumb  in  this  new  realization  of  how  terrible 
it  had  been  for  them  all. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

i 

An  hour  later  she  had  to  get  away  from  that 
room.  She  did  not  know  where  she  was  going,  but 
she  had  to  have  some  escape.  Just  the  physical 
act  of  getting  away  was  something. 

Ted  and  Harriett  were  talking  in  the  lower  hall. 
They  looked  in  inquiry  at  the  hat  she  held  and  her 
face  made  Ted  lay  a  hand  on  her  arm.  She  told 
them  she  had  to  have  exercise — air — and  was  go 
ing  out  for  a  little  walk.  She  thought  Harriett 
looked  aghast — doubtless  preferring  Euth  be  seen 
as  little  as  possible.  But  she  could  not  help  that ; 
she  had  to  get  away — away  from  that  room,  that 
house,  away  from  those  old  things  now  newly 
charged.  Something  left  with  them  shut  down 
around  her  as  a  fog  in  which  she  could  not  breathe. 
Ted  asked  if  he  should  go  with  her,  but  she  shook 
her  head  and  started  for  the  side  door,  fearing  he 
might  insist.  He  called  after  her  that  Harriett 
was  going  to  have  Cyrus  stay  at  her  house,  that  she 
could  make  room  for  him.  He  said  it  with  a  relief 
which  told  how  he  had  really  hated  having  his 
brother  go  to  the  hotel.  As  she  turned  with  some 
thing  about  that  being  better,  she  noticed  how  worn 
and  worried  Harriett  looked,  and  then  hurried 
on,  wanting  to  get  away,  to  escape  for  a  little  while 

198 


FIDELITY  199 

from  that  crushing  realization  of  how  hard  she 
made  things  for  them  all.  But  she  could  not  shut 
out  the  thought  of  the  empty  rooms  upstairs  at 
their  house — Cyrus's  old  home — and  the  crowded 
quarters  at  Harriett's.  Yet  of  course  this  would 
be  better  than  the  hotel ;  she  was  glad  Harriett  and 
Ted  had  been  able  to  arrange  it;  she  hoped,  for 
their  sakes,  that  Cyrus  would  not,  to  emphasize 
his  feeling,  insist  upon  staying  downtown. 

She  walked  several  blocks  without  giving  any 
thought  to  where  she  was  going.  She  was  not 
thinking  then  of  those  familiar  streets,  of  the 
times  she  had  walked  them.  She  was  getting 
away,  trying,  for  a  little  while,  to  escape  from 
things  she  had  no  more  power  to  bear.  She  could 
not  have  stayed  another  minute  in  her  old  room. 

A  little  ahead  of  her  she  saw  a  woman  sitting  in 
a  market  wagon,  holding  the  horse.  She  got  the 
impression  that  the  woman  was  selling  vegetables. 
She  tried  to  notice,  to  be  interested.  She  could 
see,  as  she  came  along  toward  the  wagon,  that  the 
vegetables  looked  nice  and  fresh.  She  and  Stuart 
had  raised  vegetables  once ;  they  had  done  various 
things  after  what  money  they  had  was  exhausted 
and,  handicapped  both  by  his  lack  of  ruggedness 
and  by  the  shrinking  from  people  which  their 
position  bred  in  them,  they  had  to  do  the  best  they 
could  at  making  a  living.  And  so  she  noticed  these 
vegetables,  but  it  was  not  until  she  was  close  to 
her  that  she  saw  the  woman  had  relaxed  her  hold 


200  FIDELITY 

on  the  lines  and  was  leaning  forward,  peering  at 
her.  And  when  she  came  a  little  nearer  this 
woman — a  thin,  wiry  little  person  whose  features 
were  sharp,  leaned  still  further  forward  and  cried : 
1 '  Why,  how  do  you  do  I  How  d  'do,  Euth ! ' ' 

For  a  moment  Euth  was  too  startled  to  make 
any  reply.  Then  she  only  stammered,  "  Why,  how 
do  you  do?" 

But  the  woman  leaned  over  the  side  of  the 
wagon.  Euth  was  trying  her  best  to  think  who  she 
was ;  she  knew  that  she  had  known  her  somewhere, 
in  some  way,  but  that  thin,  eager  little  face  was 
way  back  in  the  past,  and  that  she  should  be  spoken 
to  in  this  way — warm,  natural — was  itself  too 
astonishing,  moving,  to  leave  her  clear-headed  for 
casting  back. 

And  then,  just  as  she  seemed  about  to  say  some 
thing,  her  face  changed  a  little.  Euth  heard  a  gate 
click  behind  her  and  then  a  man,  a  stolid  farmer, 
he  appeared,  came  up  to  the  wagon.  The  woman 
kept  nodding  her  head,  as  if  in  continued  greeting, 
but  she  had  leaned  back,  as  though  she  had  decided 
against  what  she  had  been  about  to  say.  Euth, 
starting  on,  still  bewildered,  stirred,  nodded  and 
smiled  too ;  and  then,  when  the  man  had  jumped  in 
the  wagon  and  just  as  the  horse  was  starting,  the 
woman  called :  "It  seems  awful  good  to  have  you 
back  on  these  streets,  Euth!" 

Euth  could  only  nod  in  reply  and  hurried  on ;  her 
heart  beat  fast;  her  eyes  were  blurring.  "It 


FIDELITY  201 

seems  awful  good  to  have  you  back  on  these 
streets,  Ruth!"  Was  that  what  she  had  said? 
She  turned  around,  wanting  to  run  after  that 
wagon,  not  wanting  to  lose  that  pinched,  shabby, 
eager  little  woman  who  was  glad  to  have  her  back 
on  those  streets.  But  the  wagon  had  turned  a 
corner  and  was  out  of  sight.  Back  on  those 
streets!  It  opened  her  to  the  fact  that  she  was 
back  on  them.  She  walked  more  slowly,  thinking 
about  that.  And  she  could  walk  more  slowly ;  she 
was  less  driven. 

After  a  block  of  perplexed  thinking  she  knew 
who  that  woman  was ;  it  flashed  from  her  memory 
where  she  had  known  that  intent  look,  that  wistful 
intentness  lighting  a  thin  little  face.  It  was 
Annie  Morris,  a  girl  in  her  class  at  the  high- 
school,  a  plain,  quiet  girl — poor  she  believed  she 
was,  not  in  Ruth's  crowd.  Now  that  she  searched 
back  for  what  she  remembered  about  it  she  be 
lieved  that  this  Annie  Morris  had  always  liked 
her;  and  perhaps  she  had  taken  more  notice  of 
her  than  Edith  and  the  other  girls  had.  She 
could  see  her  now  getting  out  of  the  shabby  buggy 
in  which  she  drove  in  to  school — she  lived  some 
where  out  in  the  country.  She  remembered  talk 
ing  to  her  sometimes  at  recess — partly  because 
she  seemed  a  good  deal  alone  and  partly  because 
she  liked  to  talk  to  her.  She  remembered  that 
she  was  what  they  called  awfully  bright  in  her 
classes. 


202  FIDELITY 

That  this  girl,  whom  she  had  forgotten,  should 
welcome  her  so  warmly  stirred  an  old  wondering : 
a  wondering  if  somewhere  in  the  world  there  were 
not  people  who  would  be  her  friends.  That  won 
dering,  longing,  had  run  through  many  lonely 
days.  The  people  she  had  known  would  no 
longer  be  her  friends.  But  were  there  not  other 
people!  She  knew  so  little  about  the  world  out 
side  her  own  life ;  her  own  life  had  seemed  to  shut 
down  around  her.  But  she  had  a  feeling  that 
surely  somewhere — somewhere  outside  the  things 
she  had  known — were  people  among  whom  she 
could  find  friends.  So  far  she  had  not  found 
them.  At  the  first,  seeing  how  hard  it  would  be, 
how  bad  for  them  both,  to  have  only  each  other, 
she  had  tried  to  go  out  to  people  just  as  if  there 
were  nothing  in  her  life  to  keep  her  back  from 
them.  And  then  they  would  "hear";  that  hear 
ing  would  come  in  the  most  unforeseen  little 
ways,  at  the  most  unexpected  times;  usually 
through  those  coincidences  of  somebody's  knowing 
somebody  else,  perhaps  meeting  someone  from  a 
former  place  where  they  had  already  "heard";  it 
was  as  if  the  haphazardness  of  life,  those  little 
accidents  of  meetings  that  were  without  design, 
equipped  the  world  with  a  powerful  service  for 
"hearing,"  which  after  a  time  made  it  impossible 
for  people  to  feel  that  what  was  known  in  one 
place  would  not  come  to  be  known  in  another. 
After  she  had  several  times  been  hurt  by  the 


FIDELITY  203 

drawing  away  of  people  whom  she  had  grown  to 
like,  she  herself  drew  back  where  she  could  not  be 
so  easily  hurt.  And  so  it  came  about  that  her 
personality  changed  in  that;  from  an  outgoing 
nature  she  came  to  be  one  who  held  back,  shut 
herself  in.  Even  people  who  had  never  "heard" 
had  the  feeling  she  did  not  care  to  know  them, 
that  she  wanted  to  be  let  alone.  It  crippled  her 
power  for  friendship ;  it  hurt  her  spirit.  And  it 
left  her  very  much  alone.  In  that  loneliness  she 
wondered  if  there  were  not  those  other  people — 
people  who  could  "hear"  and  not  draw  away. 
She  had  not  found  them ;  perhaps  she  had  at  times 
been  near  them  and  in  her  holding  back — not 
knowing,  afraid — had  let  them  go  by.  Of  that, 
too,  she  had  wondered;  there  had  been  many 
lonely  wonder  ings. 

She  came  now  to  a  corner  where  she  stopped. 
She  stood  looking  down  that  cross  street  which 
was  shaded  by  elm  trees.  That  was  the  corner 
where  she  had  always  turned  for  Edith's.  Yes, 
that  was  the  way  she  used  to  go.  She  stood  look 
ing  down  the  old  way.  She  wanted  to  go  that  way 
now! 

She  went  so  far  as  to  cross  the  street,  and  on 
that  far  corner  again  stood  still,  hesitating,  want 
ing  to  go  that  old  way.  It  came  to  her  that  if  this 
other  girl — Annie  Morris — a  girl  she  could  barely 
remember,  was  glad  to  see  her  back,  then  surely 
Edith — Edith — would  be  glad  to  see  her.  But 


204  FIDELITY 

after  a  moment  she  went  slowly  on — the  other 
way.  She  remembered;  remembered  the  one  let 
ter  she  had  had  from  Edith — that  letter  of  a  few 
lines  sent  in  reply  to  her  two  letters  written  from 
Arizona,  trying  to  make  Edith  understand. 

"Buth" — Edith  had  written — she  knew  the  few 
words  by  heart;  "Yes,  I  received  your  first  letter. 
I  did  not  reply  to  it  because  it  did  not  seem  to  me 
there  was  anything  for  me  to  say.  And  it  does 
not  seem  to  me  now  that  there  is  anything  for  me 
to  say."  It  was  signed,  "Edith  Lawrence 
Blair."  The  full  signature  had  seemed  even 
more  formal  than  the  cold  words.  It  had  hurt 
more;  it  seemed  actually  to  be  putting  in  force 
the  decree  that  everything  between  her  and  Edith 
was  at  an  end.  It  was  never  to  be  Buth  and 
Edith  again. 

As  she  walked  slowly  on  now,  away  from 
Edith's,  she  remembered  the  day  she  walked 
across  that  Arizona  plain,  looking  at  Edith's  let 
ter  a  hundred  times  in  the  two  miles  between  the 
little  town  and  their  cabin.  She  had  gone  into 
town  that  day  to  see  the  doctor.  Stuart  had 
seemed  weaker  and  she  was  terribly  frightened. 
The  doctor  did  not  bring  her  much  comfort;  he 
said  she  would  have  to  be  patient,  and  hope — 
probably  it  would  all  come  right.  She  felt  very 
desolate  that  day  in  the  far-away,  forlorn  little 
town.  When  she  got  Edith's  letter  she  did  not 
dare  to  open  it  until  she  got  out  from  the  town. 


FIDELITY  205 

And  then  she  found  those  few  formal,  final  words 
— written,  it  was  evident,  to  keep  her  from  writ 
ing  any  more.  The  only  human  thing  about  it 
was  a  little  blot  under  the  signature.  It  was  the 
only  thing  a  bit  like  Edith ;  she  could  see  her  mak 
ing  it  and  frowning  over  it.  And  she  wondered 
— she  had  always  wondered — if  that  little  blot 
came  there  because  Edith  was  not  as  controlled, 
as  without  all  feeling,  as  everything  else  about  her 
letter  would  indicate.  As  she  looked  back  to  it 
now  it  seemed  that  that  day  of  getting  Edith's 
letter  was  the  worst  day  of  all  the  hard  years. 
She  had  been  so  lonely — so  frightened;  when  she 
saw  Edith's  handwriting  it  was  hard  not  to  burst 
into  tears  right  there  at  the  little  window  in  the 
queer  general  store  where  they  gave  out  letters  as 
well  as  everything  else.  But  after  she  had  read 
the  letter  there  were  no  tears ;  there  was  no  feel 
ing  of  tears.  She  walked  along  through  that  flat, 
almost  unpeopled,  half  desert  country  and  it 
seemed  that  the  whole  world  had  shrivelled  up. 
Everything  had  dried,  just  as  the  bushes  along 
the  road  were  alive  and  yet  dried  up.  She  knew 
then  that  it  was  certain  there  was  no  reach 
back  into  the  old  things.  And  that  night,  after 
they  had  gone  to  bed  out  of  doors  and  Stuart  had 
fallen  asleep,  she  lay  there  in  the  stillness  of  that 
vast  Arizona  night  and  she  came  to  seem  in 
another  world.  For  hours  she  lay  there  looking 
up  at  the  stars,  thinking,  fearing.  She  reached 


206  FIDELITY 

over  and  very  gently,  meaning  not  to  wake  him, 
put  her  hand  in  the  hand  of  the  man  asleep  beside 
her,  the  man  who  was  all  she  had  in  the  world, 
whom  she  loved  with  a  passion  that  made  the 
possibility  of  losing  him  a  thing  that  came  in  the 
night  to  terrorize  her.  He  had  awakened  and  un 
derstood,  and  had  comforted  her  with  his  love, 
lavishing  upon  her  tender,  passionate  assurance 
of  how  he  was  going  to  get  strong  and  make  it  all 
come  right  for  them  both.  There  was  something 
terrible  in  that  passion  for  one  another  that  came 
out  of  the  consciousness  of  all  else  lost.  They 
had  each  other — there  were  moments  when  that 
burned  with  a  terrible  flame  through  the  feeling 
that  they  had  nothing  else.  That  night  they  went 
to  sleep  in  a  wonderful  consciousness  of  being 
alone  together  in  the  world,  Time  after  time 
that  swept  them  together  with  an  intensity  of 
which  finally  they  came  to  be  afraid.  They 
stopped  speaking  of  it;  it  came  to  seem  a  thing 
not  to  dwell  upon. 

The  thought  of  Edith's  letter  had  brought  some 
of  that  back  now.  She  turned  from  it  to  the 
things  she  was  passing,  houses  she  recognized, 
new  houses.  Walking  on  past  them  she  thought 
of  how  those  homes  joined.  With  most  of  them 
there  were  no  fences  between — one  yard  merging 
into  another.  Children  were  running  from  yard 
to  yard;  here  a  woman  was  standing  in  her  own 
yard  calling  to  a  woman  in  the  house  adjoining. 


FIDELITY  207 

She  passed  a  porch  where  four  women  were  sit 
ting  sewing ;  another  where  two  women  were  play 
ing  with  a  baby.  There  were  so  many  meeting 
places  for  their  lives ;  they  were  not  shut  in  with 
their  own  feeling.  That  feeling  which  they  as 
individuals  knew  reached  out  into  common  experi 
ences,  into  a  life  in  common  growing  out  of  indi 
vidual  things.  Passing  these  houses,  she  wanted 
to  share  in  that  life  in  common.  She  had  been 
too  long  by  herself.  She  needed  to  be  one  with 
others.  Life,  for  a  time,  had  a  certain  terrible 
beauty  that  burned  in  that  sense  of  isolation. 
But  it  was  not  the  way.  One  needed  to  be  one 
with  others. 

She  thought  of  how  it  was  love,  more  than  any 
other  thing,  that  gave  these  people  that  common 
life.  Love  was  the  fabric  of  it.  Love  made  new 
combinations  of  people — homes,  children.  The 
very  thing  in  her  that  had  shut  her  out  was  the 
thing  drawing  them  into  that  oneness,  that  many 
in  one.  Homes  were  closed  to  her  because  of  that 
very  impulse  out  of  which  homes  were  built. 

She  had,  without  any  plan  for  doing  so,  turned 
down  the  little  street  where  she  used  to  go  to  meet 
Stuart.  And  when  she  realized  where  she  was 
going  thoughts  of  other  things  fell  away ;  the  feel 
ing  of  those  first  days  was  strangely  revivified, 
as  if  going  that  old  way  made  her  for  the  moment 
the  girl  who  had  gone  that  way.  Again  love  was 
not  a  thing  of  right  or  wrong,  it  was  the  thing 


208  FIDELITY 

that  had  to  have  its  way — life's  great  imperative. 
Going  down  that  old  street  made  the  glow  of  those 
days — the  excitement — come  to  life  and  quicken 
her  again.  It  was  so  real  that  it  was  as  if  she 
were  living  it  again — a  girl  palpitating  with  love 
going  to  meet  her  lover,  all  else  left  behind,  only 
love  now!  For  the  moment  those  old  surround 
ings  made  the  old  days  a  living  thing  to  her.  The 
world  was  just  one  palpitating  beauty;  the  earth 
she  walked  was  vibrant;  the  sweetness  of  life 
breathed  from  the  air  she  breathed.  She  was 
charged  with  the  joy  of  it,  bathed  in  the  wonder. 
Love  had  touched  her  and  taken  her,  and  she  was 
different  and  everything  was  different.  Her 
body  was  one  consciousness  of  love ;  it  lifted  her 
up;  it  melted  her  to  tenderness.  It  made  life 
joyous  and  noble.  She  lived;  she  loved! 

Standing  on  the  spot  where  they  had  many 
times  stood  in  moments  of  meeting  a  very  real 
tenderness  for  that  girl  was  in  the  heart  of  this 
woman  who  had  paid  so  terribly  for  the  girl's 
love.  It  brought  a  feeling  that  she  had  not  paid 
too  much,  that  no  paying  was  ever  too  much  for 
love.  Love  made  life ;  and  in  turn  love  was  what 
life  was  for.  To  live  without  it  would  be  going 
through  life  without  having  been  touched  alive. 
In  that  moment  it  seemed  no  wrong  love  could 
bring  about  would  be  as  deep  as  the  wrong  of 
denying  love.  There  was  again  that  old  feeling 
of  rising  to  something  higher  in  her  than  she  had 


FIDELITY  209 

known  was  there,  that  feeling  of  contact  with  all 
the  beauty  of  the  world,  of  being  admitted  to  the 
inner  sweetness  and  wonder  of  life.  She  had  a 
new  understanding  of  what  she  had  felt ;  that  was 
the  thing  added;  that  was  the  gift  of  the  hard 
years. 

And  of  a  sudden  she  wanted  terribly  to  see  her 
mother.  It  seemed  if  she  could  see  her  mother 
now  that  she  could  make  her  understand.  She 
saw  it  more  simply  than  she  had  seen  it  before. 
She  wanted  to  tell  her  mother  that  she  loved  be 
cause  she  could  not  help  loving.  She  wanted  to 
tell  her  that  after  all  those  years  of  paying  for  it 
she  saw  that  love  as  the  thing  illumining  her  life ; 
that  if  there  was  anything  worthy  in  her,  any 
thing  to  love,  it  was  in  just  this — that  she  had 
fought  for  love,  that  she  would  fight  for  it  again. 
She  wanted  to  see  her  mother !  She  believed  she 
could  help  the  hurt  she  had  dealt. 

She  had  walked  slowly  on,  climbing  a  little  hill. 
From  there  she  looked  back  at  the  town.  With 
fresh  pain  there  came  the  consciousness  that  her 
mother  was  not  there,  that  she  could  not  tell  her, 
that  she  had  gone — gone  without  understanding, 
gone  bewildered,  broken.  Her  eyes  dimmed  until 
the  town  was  a  blur.  She  wanted  to  see  her 
mother ! 

She  was  about  to  start  back,  but  turned  for  a 
moment's  look  the  other  way,  across  that  lovely 
country  of  little  hills  and  valleys — brooks,  and 


210  FIDELITY 

cattle  in  the  brooks,  and  fields  of  many  shades  of 
green. 

And  then  her  eye  fixed  upon  one  thing  and  after 
that  saw  no  other  thing.  Behind  her  was  the 
place  where  the  living  were  gathered  together; 
but  over  there,  right  over  there  on  the  next  hill, 
were  the  dead.  She  stood  very  still,  looking  over 
there  passionately  through  dimmed  eyes.  And 
then  swiftly,  sobbing  a  little  under  her  breath,  she 
started  that  way.  She  wanted  to  see  her  mother ! 

And  when  she  came  within  those  gates  she  grew 
strangely  quiet.  Back  there  in  the  dwelling  place 
of  the  living  she  had  felt  shut  out.  But  she  did 
not  feel  shut  out  here.  As  slowly  she  wound  her 
way  to  the  hillside  where  she  knew  she  would  find 
her  mother's  grave,  a  strange  peace  touched  her. 
It  was  as  if  she  had  come  within  death's  toler 
ance;  she  seemed  somehow  to  be  taken  into 
death's  wonderful,  all-inclusive  love  for  life. 
There  seemed  only  one  distinction:  they  were 
dead  and  she  still  lived ;  she  had  a  sense  of  being 
loved  because  she  still  lived. 

Slowly,  strangely  comforted,  strangely  taken 
in,  she  passed  the  graves  of  many  who,  when  she 
left,  had  been  back  there  in  the  place  of  the  liv 
ing.  The  change  from  dwelling  place  to  dwell 
ing  place  had  been  made  in  the  years  she  was 
away.  It  came  with  a  shock  to  find  some  of  those 
tombstones;  she  found  many  she  had  thought  of 
as  back  there,  a  few  hills  away,  where  men  still 


FIDELITY  211 

lived.  She  would  pause  and  think  of  them,  of 
the  strangeness  of  finding  them  here  when  she 
had  known  them  there — of  life's  onward  move 
ment,  of  death's  inevitability.  There  were  stones 
marking  the  burial  places  of  friends  of  her  grand 
father — old  people  who  used  to  come  to  the  house 
when  she  was  a  little  girl;  she  thought  with  a 
tender  pleasure  of  little  services  she  had  done 
them;  she  had  no  feeling  at  all  that  they  would 
not  want  her  to  be  there.  Friends  of  her  father 
and  mother  too  were  there ;  yes,  and  some  of  her 
own  friends — boys  and  girls  with  whom  she  had 
shared  youth. 

She  sat  a  long  time  on  the  hillside  where  her 
mother  had  been  put  away.  At  first  she  cried, 
but  they  were  not  bitter  tears.  And  after  that 
she  did  not  feel  that,  even  if  she  could  have  talked 
to  her  mother,  it  would  be  important  to  say  the 
things  she  had  thought  she  wanted  to  say.  Here, 
in  this  place  of  the  dead,  those  things  seemed  un 
derstood.  Vindication  was  not  necessary.  Was 
not  life  life,  and  should  not  one  live  before  death 
came?  She  saw  the  monuments  marking  the 
graves  of  the  Lawrences,  the  Blairs,  the  Williams ', 
the  Franklins, — her  mother's  and  her  father's 
people.  They  seemed  so  strangely  one:  people 
who  had  lived.  She  looked  across  the  hills  to  the 
town  which  these  people  had  built.  Eight  beside 
her  was  her  grandfather's  grave;  she  thought  of 
his  stories  of  how,  when  a  little  boy,  he  came  with 


212  FIDELITY 

his  people  to  that  place  not  then  a  town ;  his  stories 
of  the  beginnings  of  it,  of  the  struggles  and  con 
flicts  that  had  made  it  what  it  was.  She  thought 
of  their  efforts,  their  disappointments,  their 
hopes,  their  loves.  Their  loves.  .  .  .  She  felt  very 
close  to  them  in  that.  And  as  she  thought  of  it 
there  rose  a  strange  feeling,  a  feeling  that  came 
strangely  strong  and  sure:  If  these  people  who 
had  passed  from  living  were  given  an  after  mo 
ment  of  consciousness,  a  moment  when  they  could 
look  back  on  life  and  speak  to  it,  she  felt  that 
their  voices,  with  all  the  force  they  could  gather, 
would  be  raised  for  more  living.  Why  did  we 
not  live  more  abundantly!  Why  did  we  not  hold 
life  more  precious?  Were  they  given  power  to 
say  just  one  word,  would  they  not,  seeing  life 
from  death,  cry — Live! 

Twilight  came ;  the  world  had  the  sweetness  of 
that  hour  just  before  night.  A  breeze  stirred 
softly;  birds  called  lovingly — loving  life.  The 
whole  fragrance  of  the  world  was  breathed  into 
one  word.  It  was  as  if  life  had  caught  the  pas 
sionate  feeling  of  death;  it  was  as  if  that  after 
consciousness  of  those  who  had  left  life,  and  so 
knew  its  preciousness,  broke  through  into  things 
still  articulate.  The  earth  breathed — Live! 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

Cyrus  Holland  died  just  before  daybreak  next 
morning.  It  seemed  to  Deane  Franklin  that  he 
had  only  just  fallen  asleep  when  the  telephone  be 
side  him  was  ringing.  When  tired  out  he  slept 
through  other  noises,  but  that  one  always  in 
stantly  reached — a  call  to  him  that  got  through 
sleep.  He  wakened  just  enough  to  reach  out  for 
the  'phone  and  his  "Hello!"  was  cross.  Was 
there  never  a  time  when  one  could  be  let  alone? 
But  the  voice  that  came  to  him  banished  both 
sleep  and  irritation.  It  was  Ruth's  voice,  saying1 
quietly,  tensely:  "Deane?  I'm  sorry — but  we 
want  you.  There's  a  change.  I'm  sure  father's 
going." 

He  was  dressing  almost  the  instant  he  hung  up 
the  receiver.  To  Amy,  who  had  roused,  he  said: 
"It's  Ruth.  Her  father's  going.  I  can't  do  a 
thing — but  they  want  me  there." 

At  first  Amy  made  no  reply.  He  thought  noth 
ing  about  that,  engrossed  in  getting  dressed  as 
quickly  as  possible.  When  she  burst  out,  "So  of 
course  you're  going!"  he  was  dumbfounded  at 
the  passionateness  of  her  voice.  He  looked  at  her 
in  astonishment ;  then,  for  the  first  time  the  other 
side  of  it,  as  related  to  their  quarrel  about  Ruth, 

213 


214  FIDELITY 

turned  itself  to  him.  "Why,  of  course  I'm  go 
ing,  Amy,"  he  said  quietly. 

"It  makes  a  difference  who  it  is,  doesn't  it?" 
she  cried,  stormily.  ' '  The  other  night  when  some 
body  called  you  and  there  wasn't  a  thing  you  could 
do,  you  said  so!  You  told  them  they  mustn't 
ask  you!  But  this  is  different,  isn't  it?" 

The  words  had  piled  up  tumultuously ;  she 
seemed  right  on  the  verge  of  angry,  tumultuous 
tears.  He  paused  in  what  he  was  doing.  "Why, 
Amy,"  he  murmured  in  real  astonishment.  And 
then  helplessly  repeated  in  tender  reproach, 
"Why,  Amy!" 

But  she  laughed,  it  seemed  sneeringly.  He 
colored,  quickly  finished  dressing  and  left  the 
room  without  saying  anything  more. 

When  she  heard  the  front  door  close,  heard 
Deane  running  down  the  steps,  she  sat  up  in  bed 
and  burst  into  tears  of  rage.  Always  that 
woman!  Eunning  away  to  her  in  the  middle  of 
the  night!  He  didn't  have  to  go!  There  was 
nothing  for  him  to  do  as  a  doctor — he  could  do 
nothing  for  a  man  who  had  been  dying  for  a 
couple  of  days.  He  said  that — just  a  couple  of 
nights  before  when  someone  wanted  him  to  come. 
But  this  was  Euth  Holland!  She  had  only  to 
telephone.  Of  course  he'd  go  anywhere — any 
time — for  her!  Her  sobs  grew  more  and  more 
passionate.  Her  head  down  on  her  knees  she 


FIDELITY  215 

rocked  back  and  forth  in  that  miserable  fury  only 
jealousy  and  wounded  pride  can  create. 

This  gathered  together,  brought  to  a  head,  the 
resentment  accumulating  through  a  number  of  in 
cidents.  That  afternoon  she  had  gone  over  to 
the  Lawrences '  to  thank  Edith  and  her  mother 
for  the  flowers  from  the  tea  which  they  had  sent 
her  that  morning.  They  had  urged  her  to  run  in 
often,  to  be  friendly.  Her  unhappiness  about  her 
talk  with  Deane  the  night  before,  when  he  had  act 
ually  proposed  that  she  go  to  see  this  Euth  Hol 
land,  made  her  want  to  be  with  friends;  she 
wanted  to  see  people  who  felt  as  she  did  that — 
though  it  did  not  so  present  itself  to  her — she 
might  fortify  herself  in  the  conviction  that  Deane 
was  preposterously  wrong,  and  she  taking  the  only 
course  a  good  woman  could  take  in  relation  to  a 
bad  one.  She  was  prepared  to  feel  that  men  did 
not  see  those  things  as  clearly  as  women  did,  that 
it  was  woman  who  was  the  guardian  of  society, 
and  that  she  must  bear  with  man  in  his  failure  to 
see  some  things  right.  She  had  been  eager  to 
strengthen  herself  in  that  feeling,  not  alone  be 
cause  it  would,  in  her  own  mind,  get  her  out  of 
reach  of  any  possible  charge  of  hardness  or  nar 
rowness,  but  because  it  would  let  her  break 
through  her  feeling  against  Deane ;  she  wanted  to 
get  back  to  the  days  of  his  complete  adoration  of 
her,  back  where  his  passion  for  her  would  sweep 


216  FIDELITY 

all  else  out  of  their  world.  She  knew  well  enough 
that  Deane  loved  her,  but  there  was  a  tightened  up 
place  around  her  knowing  that.  It  made  her  mis 
erable.  Things  would  not  be  right  until  she  found 
a  way  through  that  tightened  up  place — a  way  that 
would  make  her  right  and  Deane  wrong,  but  would 
let  her  forgive,  largely  and  gently  understanding. 
Such,  not  thought  out,  were  the  things  that  took 
her  to  the  Lawrences '  that  afternoon. 

It  was  apparent  that  Edith  had  been  crying. 
She  and  her  mother  were  gracious  to  Amy,  but 
there  was  a  new  constraint.  She  felt  uncomfort 
able.  "When  they  were  alone  Edith  broke  out  and 
told  her  how  she  was  just  sick  at  heart  about  Euth. 
Deane  had  been  there  that  morning  urging  her  to 
go  and  see  Euth — instantly  there  was  all  anew  that 
tightening  up  that  held  her  from  Deane,  that  feel 
ing  against  him  and  against  this  Euth  Holland 
that  was  as  if  something  virulent  had  been  poured 
into  her  blood,  changing  her  whole  system.  Edith 
cried  as  she  told  how  Deane  and  her  mother  had 
quarreled  because  he  felt  so  strongly  on  the  sub 
ject,  and  didn't  seem  able  to  understand  her 
mother's  standpoint.  Then,  she  too  wanting  to 
set  herself  right  with  herself,  she  went  over  the 
whole  story — the  shock  to  her,  how  it  had  hurt  her 
ideal  of  friendship,  had  even  seemed  to  take  some 
thing  from  the  sanctity  of  her  own  marriage.  She 
silenced  something  within  herself  in  recounting  the 
wrong  done  her,  fortified  herself  in  repeating  the 


FIDELITY  217 

things  she  had  from  her  mother  about  one's  not 
being  free,  about  what  the  individual  owed  to  so 
ciety. 

Amy  went  home  in  a  turmoil  of  resentment 
against  her  husband.  It  was  hard  to  hold  back 
the  angry  tears.  A  nice  position  he  was  putting 
himself  in — going  about  the  town  pleading  for  this 
woman  whom  nobody  would  take  in ! — estranging 
his  friends — yes,  probably  hurting  his  practice. 
And  why?  Why  was  he  so  wrought  up  about  it? 
Why  was  he  making  a  regular  business  of  going 
about  fighting  her  battles?  Well,  one  thing  it 
showed!  It  showed  how  much  consideration  he 
had  for  his  own  wife.  When  she  came  in  sight 
of  their  house  it  was  harder  than  ever  to  hold 
back  the  tears  of  mortification,  of  hot  resentment. 
She  had  been  so  sure  she  was  going  to  be  perfectly 
happy  in  that  house !  Now  already  her  husband 
was  turning  away  from  her — humiliating  her — 
showing  how  much  he  thought  of  another  woman, 
and  such  a  woman !  She  did  not  know  what  to  do 
with  the  way  she  felt,  did  not  know  how  to  hold 
from  the  surface  the  ugly  things  that  surged 
through  her,  possessed  her.  Until  now  she  had 
had  nothing  but  adulation  from  love.  A  pretty, 
petted  girl  she  had  formed  that  idea  of  pretty 
women  in  youth  that  it  was  for  men  to  give  love 
and  women  graciously  to  accept  it.  For  her  van 
ity  to  be  hurt  by  a  man  who  had  roused  her  pas 
sion  turned  that  passion  to  fury  against  him  and 


218  FIDELITY 

made  it  seem  that  a  great  wrong  had  been  done 
her. 

As  she  approached  she  saw  that  Deane  was 
standing  before  the  house  talking  to  a  woman  in 
a  vegetable  wagon.  He  had  one  foot  up  on  the 
spoke  of  the  wheel  and  was  talking  more  earnestly 
than  it  seemed  one  would  be  talking  to  a  vegetable 
woman.  Doubtless  she  was  one  of  his  patients. 
As  she  came  up  he  said:  "Oh,  Amy,  I  want  you 
to  know  Mrs.  Herman. ' ' 

She  stiffened;  his  tone  in  introducing  her  to  a 
woman  of  what  she  thought  of  as  the  lower  classes 
seeming  just  a  new  evidence  of  his  inadequate  val 
uation  of  her. 

"Your  husband  and  I  went  to  school  together, " 
said  Mrs.  Herman,  pleasantly,  but  as  if  explaining. 

"  Oh  ? ' '  murmured  Amy. 

Deane  abruptly  moved  back  from  the  wagon. 
"Well,  you  do  that,  Annie.  Euth  would  love  to 
see  you,  I  know/' 

So  that  was  it!  She  turned  away  with  a  stiff 
little  nod  to  the  woman  in  the  wagon.  Always 
the  same  thing ! — urging  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  to 
go  and  see  that  woman ! — taking  up  with  a  person 
like  this,  introducing  his  wife  in  that  intimate 
way  to  a  woman  who  peddled  vegetables  just  be 
cause  she  was  willing  to  go  and  see  Euth  Holland ! 
She  didn't  know  that  she  had  to  stand  such  things ! 
— she  didn't  know  that  she  would.  She  guessed 


FIDELITY  219 

she  could  show  him  that  she  wasn't  going  to  play 
second  fiddle  to  that  Euth  Holland ! 

Deane  came  to  the  door  of  the  room  where  she 
was  taking  off  her  hat.  Her  fingers  were  tremb 
ling  so  that  she  could  scarcely  get  the  pins.  * '  That 
little  woman  you  were  so  chilly  to  is  a  pretty  fine 
sort,  Amy,"  he  said  incisively. 

" Because  she  is  going  to  see  Euth  Holland?" 
she  retorted  with  an  excited  laugh. 

"Oh,  you  were  pretty  stand-offish  before  you 
knew  that,"  he  answered  coolly. 

Vanity  smarting  from  deeper  hurts  made  her 
answer,  haughtily:  "I'm  rather  inexperienced, 
you  know,  in  meeting  people  of  that  class." 

In  his  heart  too  there  were  deeper  disappoint 
ments  than  this  touched.  "Well,  I  must  say — " 
he  began  hotly,  "I  think  if  I  felt  as  snobbish  as 
that  I'd  try  pretty  hard  to  conceal  it!" 

Amy  was  carefully  putting  away  her  hat ;  she 
had  an  appearance  of  cold  composure,  of  a  sense  of 
superiority.  It  was  because  she  wanted  to  keep 
that  that  she  did  not  speak.  The  things  within 
would  so  completely  have  destroyed  it. 

"I  guess  you  don't  understand,  Amy,"  said 
Deane,  quieted  by  her  silence;  "if  you  knew  all 
about  Annie  Morris  I  think  you'd  see  she  is  a 
woman  worth  meeting."  Thinking  of  his  talk 
with  Edith  and  her  mother  that  morning,  he  added, 
a  good  deal  of  feeling  breaking  into  his  voice: 


220  FIDELITY 

"A  good  sight  more  so  than  some  of  the  people 
you  are  meeting ! ' ' 

"  And  of  course,"  she  could  not  hold  back,  "they 
— those  inferior  people — won't  go  to  see  Euth 
Holland,  and  this  wonderful  woman  will!  That's 
the  secret  of  it,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  one  thing  that  shows  her  superiority," 
he  replied  coolly.  "Another  thing  is  her  pluck — 
grit.  Her  husband  is  a  dolt,  and  she 's  determined 
her  three  children  shall  have  some  sort  of  a  show 
in  life,  so  she's  driven  ahead — worked  from  day 
light  till  dark  many  a  time — to  make  decent  things 
possible  for  them." 

"Well,  that's  very  commendable,  I'm  sure,"  re 
plied  Amy  mildly,  appearing  to  be  chiefly  con 
cerned  with  a  loose  button  on  the  wrap  she  had 
just  taken  off. 

"And  with  all  that  she's  kept  her  own  spirit 
alive ;  she 's  not  going  to  let  life  get  clear  ahead  of 
her,  either.  She's  pretty  valiant,  I  think."  He 
was  thinking  again  of  Edith  and  her  mother  as 
he  added  contentiously,  "I  don't  know  any  woman 
in  this  town  I'd  rather  talk  to!" 

Amy,  appearing  quite  outside  the  things  that 
were  disturbing  him,  only  smiled  politely  and 
threaded  a  needle  for  sewing  on  the  button.  He 
stood  there  in  the  doorway,  fidgeting,  his  face  red. 
She  seemed  so  uncaring;  she  seemed  so  far  away. 
"Oh,  Amy!"  he  cried,  miserably,  appealingly. 

Quickly  she  looked  up;  her  mouth,  which  had 


FIDELITY  221 

been  so  complacent,  twitched.  He  started  toward 
her,  but  just  then  the  doorbell  rang.  "I  presume 
that's  your  mother,"  she  said,  in  matter  of  fact 
tone. 

Mrs.  Franklin  was  with  them  for  dinner  that 
night.  Amy's  social  training  made  it  appear  as 
if  nothing  were  disturbing  her.  She  appeared 
wholly  composed,  serene ;  it  was  Deane  who  seemed 
ill  at  ease,  out  of  sorts. 

After  dinner  he  had  to  go  to  the  hospital  and 
when  she  was  alone  with  his  mother  Amy  was  not 
able  to  keep  away  from  the  subject  of  Ruth  Hol 
land.  For  one  thing,  she  wanted  to  hear  about 
her,  she  was  avid  for  detail  as  to  how  she  looked, 
things  she  had  done  and  said — that  curious  human 
desire  to  press  on  a  place  that  hurts.  And  there 
was  too  the  impulse  for  further  self-exoneration, 
to  be  assured  that  she  was  right,  to  feel  that  she 
was  injured. 

All  of  those  things  it  was  easy  to  get  from  Mrs. 
Franklin.  Amy,  not  willing  to  reveal  what  there 
had  been  between  her  and  Deane,  and  having  that 
instinct  for  drawing  sympathy  to  herself  by  seem 
ing  self-depreciation,  spoke  gently  of  how  she 
feared  she  did  not  altogether  understand  about 
Deane 's  friend  Ruth  Holland.  Was  she  wrong  in 
not  going  with  Deane  to  see  her  ? 

Mrs.  Franklin's  explosion  of  indignation  at  the 
idea,  and  the  feeling  with  which,  during  the  hour 
that  followed,  she  expressed  herself  about  Deane 's 


222  FIDELITY 

friend  Eutli  Holland,  acted  in  a  double  fashion  as 
both  fortification  and  new  hurt.  Mrs.  Franklin, 
leader  in  church  and  philanthropic  affairs,  had  ab 
solutely  no  understanding  of  things  which  went 
outside  the  domain  of  what  things  should  be.  The 
poor  and  the  wicked  did  terrible  things  that  society 
must  do  something  about.  There  was  no  excuse 
whatever  for  people  who  ought  to  know  better. 
That  people  should  be  dominated  by  things  they 
ought  not  to  feel  was  perversity  on  their  part  and 
the  most  wilful  kind  of  wickedness.  She  had  Mrs. 
Lawrence's  point  of  view,  but  from  a  more  provin 
cial  angle.  Deane  did  not  get  his  questioning 
spirit,  what  she  called  his  stubbornness,  from  his 
mother. 

Added  to  what  she  as  a  church  woman  and 
worker  for  social  betterment  felt  about  the  affair 
was  the  resentment  of  the  mother  at  her  son's  hav 
ing  been,  as  she  put  it,  dragged  into  the  outrage. 
She  grew  so  inflamed  in  talking  of  how  this  woman 
had  used  Deane  that  she  did  not  take  thought  of 
how  she  was  giving  more  of  an  impression  of  her 
power  over  him  than  might  be  pleasant  hearing  for 
Deane 's  young  wife.  The  indignation  of  the 
whole  Franklin  family  at  what  they  called  the  way 
Deane  had  been  made  a  cat's  paw  was  fanned  to 
full  flame  in  this  preposterous  suggestion  that 
Amy  should  go  to  see  Euth  Holland.  In  her  in 
dignation  at  the  idea  she  gave  a  new  sense  of 
what  the  town  felt  about  Euth,  and  she  was  more 


FIDELITY  223 

vehement  than  tactful  in  her  expressions  against 
Deane  for  holding  out  that  way  against  the  whole 
town.  ' l  It  just  shows,  my  dear, ' '  she  said,  '  '  what 
a  woman  of  no  principle  can  do  with  a  man ! ' 9 

Amy,  hurt  to  the  quick  in  this  thought  of  the 
mysterious  lure  of  a  woman  of  no  principle,  re 
marked  casually,  "She's  wonderfully  attractive,  I 
presume. ' ' 

Mrs.  Franklin  was  not  too  blunted  by  indigna 
tion  to  miss  the  pain  that  was  evident  in  the  in 
differently  asked  question.  Hastily — more  hast 
ily  than  subtly,  she  proceeded  to  depreciate  the 
attractions  of  Euth  Holland,  but  in  the  deprecia 
tion  left  an  impression  of  some  quality — elusive, 
potent — which  more  than  beauty  or  definite  charm 
gave  her  power.  Edith  too  had  spoken  of  that 
"something"  about  Ruth;  a  something  one  never 
forgot;  a  something,  she  said,  that  no  one  else 
had. 

And  now,  awakened  by  Deane 's  having  been 
called  by  this  woman  in  the  night,  herself  alone 
there  and  he  hurrying  to  Euth  Holland,  the  bar 
riers  of  pride  broke  down  and  she  cried  because 
she  was  sorry  for  herself,  because  she  was  hurt 
and  outraged  that  she  should  be  hurt,  because  for 
the  first  time  in  her  whole  life  she  was  thwarted — 
not  having  her  way,  set  aside.  She  completely 
lost  her  hold  on  herself,  got  up  and  stormed  about 
the  room.  When  she  looked  at  her  face  in  the 
mirror  she  saw  that  it  was  hideous.  She  couldn't 


224  FIDELITY 

help  it! — she  didn't  care!  The  resentment,  rage, 
in  her  heart  was  like  a  poison  that  went  all 
through  her.  She  was  something  that  didn't  seem 
herself.  She  thought  horrible  things  and  ground 
her  teeth  and  clenched  her  hands  and  let  her  face 
look  as  ugly  as  it  could.  She  hated  this  woman! 
She  wished  some  horrible  thing  would  happen  to 
her!  She  hated  Deane  Franklin!  The  passion 
he  had  roused  in  her  all  turned  into  this  feel 
ing  against  him.  She  wouldn't  stand  it!  She 
wouldn't  stay  there  and  play  second  fiddle  to  an 
other  woman — she,  a  bride!  Fresh  tears  came 
with  that  last.  Her  mother  and  father  would 
never  have  treated  her  that  way.  They  didn't 
think  Deane  Franklin  good  enough  for  her,  any 
way!  She  would  go  back  home!  That  would 
make  things  pretty  hard  for  him!  That  would 
show  what  this  woman  had  done!  And  he'd  be 
sorry  then — would  want  her  back — and  she 
wouldn't  come.  She  finally  found  control  in  that 
thought  of  her  power  over  him  used  to  make  him 
suffer. 

Deane,  meanwhile,  was  hurrying  through  the 
streets  that  had  the  unrealness  of  that  hour  just 
before  morning.  That  aspect  of  things  was  with 
him  associated  with  death;  almost  always  when 
he  had  been  on  the  streets  at  that  hour  it  was  be 
cause  someone  was  fighting  death.  It  was  so  still 
— as  if  things  were  awed.  And  a  light  that 
seemed  apart  from  natural  things  was  formed  by 


FIDELITY  225 

the  way  the  street  lights  grew  pale  in  the  faint 
light  of  coming  day.  Everyone  was  sleeping — all 
save  those  in  a  house  half  a  dozen  blocks  away, 
the  house  where  they  were  waiting  for  death. 

He  was  on  foot,  having  left  his  car  down  at  the 
garage  for  some  repairs  after  taking  his  mother 
home.  As  he  slowed  for  a  moment  from  a  walk 
that  was  half  run  he  thought  of  how  useless  his 
hurrying  was.  What  in  the  world  could  he  do 
when  he  got  there?  Nothing  save  assure  them  he 
could  do  nothing.  Poor  Kuth ! — it  seemed  she  had 
so  much,  so  many  hard  things.  This  was  a  time 
when  one  needed  one's  friends,  but  of  course  they 
couldn't  come  near  her — on  account  of  society. 
Though — his  face  softened  with  the  thought — 
Annie  Morris  would  come,  she  not  being  op 
pressed  by  this  duty  to  society.  He  thought  of 
the  earnestness  of  her  thin  face  as  she  talked  of 
Euth.  That  let  in  the  picture  of  Amy's  face  as 
he  introduced  them.  He  tried  not  to  keep  seeing 
it.  He  did  think,  however,  that  it  was  pretty  un 
necessary  of  Amy  to  have  talked  to  his  mother 
about  Euth.  All  that  was  unyielding  in  him 
had  been  summoned  by  the  way  his  mother  talked 
to  him  going  home — "going  for  him"  like  that 
because  he  had  wanted  Amy  to  go  and  see  Euth. 
That,  it  seemed  to  him,  was  something  between 
him  and  Amy.  He  would  not  have  supposed  she 
would  be  so  ready  to  talk  with  some  one  else  about 
a  thing  that  was  just  between  themselves.  There 


226  FIDELITY 

had  been  that  same  old  hardening  against  his 
mother  when  she  began  talking  of  Euth,  and  that 
feeling  that  shut  her  out  excluded  Amy  with  her. 
And  he  had  wanted  Amy  with  him. 

Hurrying  on,  he  tried  not  to  think  of  it.  He 
didn't  know  why  Amy  had  talked  to  his  mother 
about  it — perhaps  it  just  happened  so,  perhaps 
his  mother  began  it.  He  seized  upon  that.  And 
Amy  didn't  understand;  she  was  young — her  life 
had  never  touched  anything  like  this.  He  was 
going  to  talk  to  her — really  talk  to  her,  not  fly  off 
the  handle  at  the  first  thing  she  would  say.  He 
told  himself  that  he  had  been  stupid,  hard — a 
bungler.  It  made  him  feel  better  to  tell  himself 
that.  Yes,  he  certainly  had  been  unsympathetic, 
and  it  was  a  shame  that  anything  had  come  to 
make  Amy  unhappy — and  right  there  at  first,  too! 
Why,  it  was  actually  making  her  sick !  When  he 
went  back  after  taking  his  mother  home  Amy  said 
she  had  a  bad  headache  and  didn't  want  to  talk. 
She  was  so  queer  that  he  had  taken  her  at  her 
word  and  had  not  tried  to  talk  to  her — be  nice  to 
her.  It  seemed  now  that  he  hadn't  been  kind;  it 
helped  him  to  feel  that  he  hadn't  been  kind.  And 
it  was  the  headache,  being  roused  in  the  night 
when  she  was  not  well  that  had  made  her  so — 
well,  so  wrought  up  about  his  answering  to  the 
call  of  the  Hollands — old  patients,  old  friends. 
He  was  going  to  be  different ;  he  was  going  to  be 
more  tender  with  Amy — that  would  be  the  way  to 


FIDELITY  227 

make  her  understand.  Such  were  the  things  his 
troubled  mind  and  hurt  heart  tried  to  be  per 
suaded  of  as,  thinking  at  the  same  time  of  other 
things — the  death  to  which  he  was  hurrying,  how 
hard  it  would  be  for  Euth  if  Cyrus  didn't  speak 
to  her — he  passed  swiftly  by  the  last  houses  where 
people  slept  and  turned  from  a  world  tinged  with 
the  strangeness  of  an  hour  so  little  known  to 
men's  consciousness,  softly  opened  the  door  and 
stepped  into  the  house  where  death  was  touching 
life  with  that  same  unreality  with  which,  without, 
day  touched  night. 

Miss  Copeland,  wrapped  in  a  bathrobe,  sat  in 
the  upstairs  hall.  "He's  still  breathing,"  she 
whispered  in  that  voice  which  is  for  death  alone. 
In  the  room  Kuth  and  Ted  stood  close  together, 
the  nurse  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed.  Euth's 
hair  was  braided  down  her  back;  he  remembered 
when  she  used  to  wear  it  that  way,  he  had  one 
of  those  sudden  pictures  of  her — on  her  way  to 
school,  skipping  along  with  Edith  Lawrence.  She 
turned,  hearing  him,  and  there  was  that  rush  of 
feeling  to  her  eyes  that  always  claimed  him  for 
Euth,  that  quick,  silent  assumption  of  his  under 
standing  that  always  let  down  bars  between  them. 
But  Euth  kept  close  to  Ted,  as  if  she  would  shield 
him;  the  boy  looked  as  Deane  had  seen  novices 
look  in  the  operating  room. 

There  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  beyond  look 
at  his  patient  and  nod  to  the  nurse  in  confirma- 


228  FIDELITY 

tion  that  it  would  be  any  minute  now.  He  walked 
around  to  Ted  and  Euth,  taking  an  arm  of  each 
of  them  and  walking  with  them  to  the  far  side  of 
the  room. 

"There's  nothing  to  do  but  wait,"  he  said. 

"I  wish  Harriett  and  Cyrus  would  get  here," 
whispered  Euth. 

" You  telephoned!" 

"Before  I  did  you — but  of  course  it's  a  little 
farther." 

They  stood  there  together  in  that  strange 
silence,  hearing  only  the  unlifelike  breathing  of 
the  man  passing  from  life.  Listening  to  it,  Euth 's 
hand  on  Deane's  arm  tightened.  Soothingly  he 
patted  her  hand. 

Then,  at  a  movement  from  the  nurse,  he  stepped 
quickly  to  the  bed.  Euth  and  Ted,  close  together, 
first  followed,  then  held  back.  A  minute  later  he 
turned  to  them.  "It's  over,"  he  said,  in  the  sim 
ple  way  final  things  are  said. 

There  was  a  choking  little  cry  from  Ted.  Euth 
murmured  something,  her  face  all  compassion  for 
him.  But  after  a  moment  she  left  her  brother  and 
stood  alone  beside  her  father.  In  that  moment  of 
seeing  her  face,  before  turning  away  because  it 
seemed  he  should  turn  away,  Deane  got  one  of 
the  strangest  impressions  of  his  life.  It  was  as 
if  she  was  following  her  father — reaching  him ;  as 
if  there  was  a  fullness  of  feeling,  a  rising  passion- 


FIDELITY  229 

ate  intensity  that  could  fairly  overflow  from  life. 
Then  she  turned  back  to  Ted. 

Cyrus  and  Harriett  had  entered.  There  was  a 
moment  when  the  four  children  were  there  to 
gether.  Cyrus  did  not  come  up  to  the  bed  until 
Euth  had  left.  Deane  watched  his  face  as — per 
functorily  subdued,  decorous,  he  stood  where  Euth 
had  stood  a  moment  before.  Then  Cyrus  turned 
to  him  and  together  they  walked  from  the  room, 
Cyrus  asking  why  they  had  not  been  telephoned 
in  time. 

Deane  lingered  for  a  little  while,  hating  to*  go 
without  again  seeing  Euth  and  Ted.  He  tapped 
at  Euth's  door;  he  was  not  answered,  but  the  un 
latched  door  had  swung  a  little  open  at  his  touch. 
He  saw  that  the  brother  and  sister  were  out  on 
the  little  porch  opening  off  Euth's  room.  He 
went  out  and  stood  beside  them,  knowing  that  he 
would  be  wanted.  The  sun  was  just  rising,  touch 
ing  the  dew  on  the  grass.  The  birds  were  singing 
for  joy  in  another  day.  The  three  who  had  just 
seen  death  stood  there  together  in  silence. 


CHAPTEE  TWENTY 

The  two  days  when  the  natural  course  of  life 
was  arrested  by  death  had  passed.  Their  father 
had  been  buried  that  afternoon,  and  in  the  early 
evening  Ted  and  Euth  were  sitting  on  the  little 
upper  porch,  very  quiet  in  the  new  poignant 
emptiness  of  the  house.  Many  people  had  been 
coming  and  going  in  those  last  few  days;  now 
that  was  over  and  there  was  a  pause  before  the 
routine  of  life  was  to  be  resumed.  The  fact  that 
the  nurse  had  gone  seemed  to  turn  the  page. 

Euth  had  just  asked  how  long  Cyrus  was  going 
to  stay  and  Ted  replied  that  he  wanted  to  stay  on 
a  week  or  perhaps  more,  attending  to  some  busi 
ness.  She  knew  how  crowded  it  must  be  for  them 
at  Harriett's,  knew  that  if  she  went  away  Cyrus 
would  come  home.  There  seemed  nothing  more  to 
keep  her;  she  would  like  to  be  with  Ted  awhile, 
but  it  seemed  she  could  not  do  that  without  con 
tinuing  a  hard  condition  for  them  all.  They  could 
settle  into  a  more  natural  order  of  things  with  her 
not  there.  It  was  time  for  her  to  go. 

It  was  hard  to  have  to  think  that.  She  would 
love  to  have  stayed  a  little  while.  She  had  been 
away  so  long — wanting  home  for  so  long.  She 
knew  now,  facing  the  going  away,  how  much  she 

230 


FIDELITY  231 

had  secretly  hoped  might  result  from  this  trip 
back  home. 

She  had  seen  a  number  of  people  in  the  past 
few  days — relatives,  old  friends  of  the  family, 
friends  of  Ted.  She  had  done  better  in  meeting 
them  than,  just  a  little  while  before,  she  would 
have  thought  possible.  Something  remained  with 
her  from  that  hour  at  her  mother's  grave,  that 
strange  hour  when  she  had  seemed  to  see  life  from 
outside,  beyond  it.  That  had  summoned  some 
thing  within  herself  that  no  personal  hurt  could 
scatter,  as  if  taking  her  in  to  something  from 
which  no  circumstance  could  drive  her  out.  She 
had  felt  an  inner  quiet,  a  steadiness  within ;  there 
was  power  in  it,  and  consolation.  It  took  her  out 
of  that  feeling  of  having  no  place — no  right  to  a 
place,  the  feeling  that  had  made  her  wretched  and 
powerless.  She  was  of  life;  her  sure  inner  sense 
of  the  reality  and  beauty  of  that  seemed  a  thing 
not  to  be  broken  down  from  without.  It  was  hers, 
her  own.  It  sustained  her;  it  gave  her  poise. 
The  embarrassment  of  other  people  gave  way  be 
fore  her  simple  steadiness.  She  had  had  but  the 
one  point  of  contact  with  them — that  of  her 
father's  death;  it  made  her  want  more,  made  go 
ing  away  hard.  It  was  hard  to  leave  all  the  old 
things  after  even  this  slight  touch  with  them 
again. 

And  that  new  quiet,  that  new  force  within  was 
beginning  to  make  for  new  thinking.  She  had 


232  FIDELITY 

thought  much  about  what  she  had  lived  through — 
she  could  not  help  doing  that,  but  she  was  think 
ing  now  with  new  questionings.  She  had  not 
questioned  much;  she  had  accepted.  What  was 
gathering  within  her  now  was  a  feeling  that  a 
thing  so  real,  so  of  life  as  her  love  had  been 
should  not  be  a  thing  to  set  her  apart,  should  not 
be  a  thing  to  blight  the  lives  that  touched  hers. 
This  was  not  something  called  up  in  vindication, 
a  mere  escape  from  hard  thinking,  her  own  way 
out  from  things  she  could  not  bear ;  it  was  deeper 
than  that,  far  less  facile.  It  came  from  that  in 
ner  quiet — from  that  strange  new  assurance — 
this  feeling  that  her  love  should  not  have  devas 
tated,  that  it  was  too  purely  of  life  for  that ;  that 
it  was  a  thing  to  build  up  life,  to  give  to  it ;  this 
wondering,  at  once  timid  and  bold,  if  there  was 
not  something  wrong  with  an  order  that  could  give 
it  no  place,  that  made  it  life's  enemy. 

She  had  been  afraid  of  rebellious  thinking,  of 
questionings.  There  had  been  so  much  to  fight, 
so  much  to  make  her  afraid.  At  first  all  the 
strength  of  her  feeling  had  gone  into  the  fight  for 
Stuart's  health;  she  was  afraid  of  things  that 
made  her  rebellious — needing  all  of  herself,  not 
daring  to  break  through.  The  circumstances  had 
seemed  to  make  her  own  life  just  shut  down 
around  her ;  and  even  after  those  first  years,  liv 
ing  itself  was  so  hard,  there  were  so  many  worries 
and  disappointments — her  feeling  about  it  was  so 


FIDELITY  233 

tense,  life  so  stern — that  her  thoughts  did  not 
shoot  a  long  way  out  into  questionings.  She  had 
done  a  thing  that  cut  her  off  from  her  family ;  she 
had  hurt  other  people  and  because  of  that  she 
herself  must  suffer.  Life  could  not  be  for  her 
what  it  was  for  others.  She  accepted  much  that 
she  did  not  try  to  understand.  For  one  thing, 
she  had  had  no  one  to  talk  to  about  those  things. 
Seeing  how  Stuart's  resentment  against  the  state 
of  things  weakened  him,  keeping  him  from  his  full 
powers  to  meet  those  hard  conditions,  she  did  not 
encourage  their  talking  of  it  and  had  tried  to  keep 
herself  from  the  thinking  that  with  him  went  into 
brooding  and  was  weakening.  She  had  to  do  the 
best  she  could  about  things;  she  could  not  spend 
herself  in  rebellion  against  what  she  had  to  meet. 
Like  a  man  who  finds  himself  on  a  dizzy  ledge  she 
grew  fearful  of  much  looking  around. 

But  now,  in  these  last  few  days,  swept  back  into 
the  wreckage  she  had  left,  something  fluttered  to 
life  and  beat  hard  within  her  spirit,  breaking  its 
way  through  the  fearfulness  that  shut  her  in  and 
sending  itself  out  in  new  bolder  flights.  Not  that 
those  outgoings  took  her  away  from  the  place  she 
had  devastated ;  it  was  out  of  the  poignancy  of  her 
feeling  about  the  harm  she  had  done,  out  of  her 
new  grief  in  it  that  these  new  questionings  were 
born.  The  very  fact  that  she  did  see  so  well,  and 
so  sorrowingly,  what  she  had  done,  brought  this 
new  feeling  that  it  should  not  have  been  that  way, 


234  FIDELITY 

that  what  she  had  felt,  and  her  fidelity  to  that  feel 
ing — ruthless  fidelity  though  it  was — should  not 
have  blighted  like  this.  There  was  something 
that  seemed  at  the  heart  of  it  all  in  that  feeling  of 
not  being  ashamed  in  the  presence  of  death — she 
who  had  not  denied  life. 

Silence  had  fallen  between  her  and  Ted,  she 
saddened  in  the  thought  of  going  away  and  open 
to  the  puzzling  things  that  touched  her  life  at 
every  point;  looking  at  Ted — proud  of  him — hat 
ing  to  leave  him  now  just  when  she  had  found  him 
again,  thinking  with  loving  gratefulness  and  pride 
of  how  generous  and  how  understanding  he  had 
been  with  her,  how  he  was  at  once  so  boyish  and 
so  much  more  than  his  years.  The  fine  serious 
ness  of  his  face  tonight  made  him  very  dear  and 
very  comforting  to  her.  She  wanted  to  keep  close 
to  him;  she  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  again 
losing  him.  If  her  hard  visit  back  home  yielded 
just  that  she  would  have  had  rich  gain  from  it. 
She  began  talking  with  him  about  what  he  would 
do.  He  talked  freely  of  his  work,  as  if  glad  to 
talk  of  it;  he  was  not  satisfied  with  it,  did  not 
think  there  was  much  "  chance "  there  for  him. 
Ted  had  thought  he  wanted  to  study  law,  but  his 
father,  in  one  of  his  periods  of  depression,  had 
said  he  could  not  finish  sending  him  through  col 
lege  and  Ted  had  gone  into  one  of  the  big  manu 
factories  there.  He  was  in  the  sales  department, 
and  he  talked  to  Euth  of  the  work.  He  told  her 


FIDELITY  235 

of  his  friends,  of  what  they  were  doing;  they 
talked  of  many  things,  speaking  of  the  future 
with  that  gentle  intimacy  there  can  be  between 
those  sorrowing  together  for  things  past.  Their 
sensitive  consciousness  of  the  emptiness  of  the 
house — the  old  place,  their  home, — brought  them 
together  through  a  deep  undercurrent  of  feeling. 
Their  voices  were  low  as  they  spoke  of  more  inti 
mate  things  than  it  is  usual  to  speak  of  without 
constraint,  something  lowered  between  them  as 
only  a  grief  shared  can  lower  bars  to  the  spirit, 
their  thinking  set  in  that  poignant  sense  of  life 
which  death  alone  seems  able  to  create. 

Ted  broke  a  pause  to  say  that  he  supposed  it 
was  getting  late  and  he  must  be  starting  for  Har 
riett's.  Cyrus  had  asked  him  to  come  over  awhile 
that  evening.  Mr.  McFarland,  their  family  law 
yer,  was  going  out  of  town  for  a  few  days,  leaving 
the  next  morning.  He  was  coming  in  that  even 
ing,  more  as  the  old  friend  than  formally,  to 
speak  to  them  about  some  business  matters, 
Cyrus 's  time  being  limited  and  there  being  a  num 
ber  of  things  to  arrange. 

"I  hate  leaving  you  alone,  Buth,"  said  Ted, 
lingering. 

She  looked  over  to  him  with  quick  affectionate 
smile.  "I  don't  mind,  Ted.  Somehow  I  don't 
mind  being  alone  tonight. ' ' 

That  was  true.  Being  alone  would  not  be  loneli 
ness  that  evening.  Things  were  somehow  opened ; 


236  FIDELITY 

all  things  had  so  strangely  opened.  She  had  been 
looking  down  the  deep-shadowed  street,  that  old 
street  down  which  she  used  to  go.  The  girl  who 
used  to  go  down  that  street  was  singularly  real 
to  her  just  then ;  she  had  ahout  her  the  fresh  feel 
ing,  the  vivid  sense,  of  a  thing  near  in  time.  Old 
things  were  so  strangely  opened,  old  feeling  was 
alive  again:  the  wild  joy  in  the  girl's  heart,  the 
delirious  expectancy — and  the  fear.  It  was 
strange  how  completely  one  could  get  back  across 
the  years,  how  things  gone  could  become  living 
things  again.  That  was  why  she  was  not  going  to 
mind  being  alone  just  then;  she  had  a  sense  of  the 
whole  flow  of  her  life — living,  moving.  It  did  not 
seem  a  thing  to  turn  away  from ;  it  was  not  often 
that  things  were  all  open  like  that. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Deane  would  drop  in," 
said  Ted,  as  if  trying  to  help  himself  through 
leaving  her  there  alone. 

1  i  He  may, ' '  Euth  answered.  She  did  not  say  it 
with  enthusiasm,  much  as  she  would  like  to  talk 
with  Deane.  Deane  was  just  the  one  it  would  be 
good  to  talk  with  that  night.  But  Deane  never 
mentioned  his  wife  to  her.  At  first,  in  her  preoc 
cupation,  and  her  pleasure  in  seeing  him,  she  had 
not  thought  much  about  that.  Then  it  had  come 
to  her  that  doubtless  Deane 's  wife  would  not 
share  his  feeling  about  her,  that  she  would  share 
the  feeling  of  all  the  other  people;  that  brought 
the  fear  that  she  might,  again,  be  making  things 


FIDELITY  237 

hard  for  Deane.  She  had  done  enough  of  that; 
much  as  his  loyalty,  the  rare  quality  of  his  af 
fectionate  friendship  meant  to  her,  she  would 
rather  he  did  not  come  than  let  the  slightest  new 
shadow  fall  upon  his  life  because  of  her.  And 
yet  it  seemed  all  wrong,  preposterous,  to  think 
anyone  who  was  close  to  Deane,  anyone  whom  he 
loved,  should  not  understand  this  friendship  be 
tween  them.  She  thought  of  how,  meeting  after 
all  those  years,  they  were  not  strange  with  each 
other.  That  seemed  rare — to  be  cherished. 

< ' What's  Deane 's  wife  like,  Ted?"  she  asked. 

"I  haven't  met  her,"  he  replied,  "but  I've  seen 
her.  She's  awfully  good-looking;  lots  of  style, 
and  carries  herself  as  if — oh,  as  if  she  knew  she 
was  somebody,"  he  laughed.  "And  I  guess 
Deane  thinks  she  is/'  he  added  with  another 
laugh.  "Guess  he  decided  that  first  time  he  met 
her.  You  know  he  stopped  in  Indianapolis  to  see 
a  classmate  who  was  practising  there — met  her  at 
a  party,  I  believe,  and — good-by  Deane!  But 
somehow  she  isn't  what  you'd  expect  Deane 's  wife 
to  be, ' '  he  went  on  more  seriously.  ' '  Doesn't  look 
that  way,  anyhow.  Looks  pretty  frigid,  I  thought, 
and,  oh — fixed  up.  As  if  she  wasn't  just  real." 

Ruth 's  brows  puckered.  If  there  was  one  thing 
it  seemed  the  wife  of  Deane  Franklin  should  be, 
it  was  real.  But  doubtless  Ted  was  wrong — not 
knowing  her.  It  did  not  seem  that  Deane  would 
be  drawn  to  anyone  who  was  not  real. 


238  FIDELITY 

She  lingered  in  the  thought  of  him.  Real  was 
just  what  Deane  was.  He  had  been  wonderfully 
real  with  her  in  those  days — days  that  had  made 
the  pattern  of  her  life.  Eeality  had  swept  away 
all  other  things  between  them.  That  carried  her 
back  to  the  new  thinking,  the  questions.  It  seemed 
it  was  the  things  not  real  that  were  holding  peo 
ple  apart.  It  was  the  artificialities  people  had  let 
living  build  up  around  them  made  those  people 
hard.  People  would  be  simpler — kinder — could 
those  unreal  things  be  swept  away.  She  dwelt  on 
the  thought  of  a  world  like  that — a  world  of  peo 
ple  simple  and  real  as  Deane  Franklin  was  simple 
and  real. 

She  was  called  from  that  by  a  movement  and 
exclamation  from  Ted,  who  had  leaned  over  the 
railing.  "  There  goes  Mildred  Woodbury,"  he 
said, — "and  alone." 

His  tone  made  her  look  at  him  in  inquiry  and 
then  down  the  street  at  the  slight  figure  of  a  girl 
whose  light  dress  stood  out  clearly  between  the 
shadows.  Mildred  was  the  daughter  of  a  family 
who  lived  in  the  next  block.  The  Woodburys 
and  the  Hollands  had  been  neighbors  and  friends 
as  far  back  as  Euth  could  remember.  Mildred 
was  only  a  little  girl  when  Euth  went  away — such 
a  pretty  little  girl,  her  fair  hair  always  gayly  tied 
with  ribbons.  She  had  been  there  with  her 
mother  the  night  before  and  Euth  had  been 
startled  by  her  coming  into  the  room  where  she 


FIDELITY  239 

i 

was  and  saying  impulsively:  "You  don't  remem 
ber  me,  do  you!  I'm  Mildred — Mildred  Wood- 
bury." 

"And  you  used  to  call  me  Wuth!"  Euth  had 
eagerly  replied. 

It  had  touched  her,  surrounded  as  she  was  by 
perfunctoriness  and  embarrassment  that  this 
young  girl  should  seek  her  out  in  that  warm  way. 
And  something  in  the  girl's  eyes  had  puzzled  her. 
She  had  returned  to  thought  of  it  more  than  once 
and  that  made  her  peculiarly  interested  in  Ted's 
queer  allusion  to  Mildred  now. 

"Well!"  she  inquired. 

"Mildred's  getting  in  rather  bad,"  he  said 
shortly. 

* '  Getting — what  do  you  mean,  Ted  1 ' '  she  asked, 
looking  at  him  in  a  startled  way. 

"People  are  talking  about  her,"  he  said. 

"People  are — !"  she  began,  but  stopped,  look 
ing  at  him  all  the  while  in  that  startled  way. 

"Talking  about  her,"  he  repeated.  "I  guess 
it's  been  going  on  for  some  time — though  I  didn't 
hear  about  it  until  a  little  while  ago. ' ' 

"About  what,  Ted!"  Her  voice  faltered  and 
it  seemed  to  make  him  suddenly  conscious  of  what 
he  was  saying,  to  whom  he  spoke. 

"Why,"— he  faltered  now  too,  "Mildred's  act 
ing  sort  of  silly — that's  all.  I  don't  know — a 
flirtation,  or  something,  with  Billy  Archer.  You 
don't  know  him;  he  came  here  a  few  years  ago 


240  FIDELITY 

on  some  construction  work.  He's  an  engineer. 
He  is  a  fascinating  fellow,  all  right,"  he  added. 

Euth  pushed  back  her  chair  into  deeper  shadow. 
"And — ?"  she  suggested  faintly. 

"He's  married,"  briefly  replied  Ted. 

She  did  not  speak  for  what  seemed  a  long  time. 
Ted  was  beginning  to  fidget.  Then,  "How  old  is 
Mildred,  Ted  ? ' '  Euth  asked  in  a  very  quiet  voice. 

"About  twenty,  I  guess ;  she's  a  couple  of  years 
younger  than  I  am." 

"And  this  man? — how  old  is  he?"  That  she 
asked  a  little  sharply. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  he's  in  the  older  crowd; 
somewhere  in  the  thirties,  I  should  say." 

"Well — "  But  she  abruptly  checked  what  she 
had  sharply  begun  to  say,  and  pushed  her  chair 
still  further  back  into  shadow.  When  Ted  stole 
a  timid  glance  at  her  a  minute  later  he  saw  that 
she  seemed  to  be  holding  her  hands  tight  together. 

' '  And  doesn  't  Mildred 's  mother —  1 "  It  seemed 
impossible  for  her  to  finish  anything,  to  say  it  out. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Guess  not.  It's  funny — 
but  you  know  a  person's  folks—" 

There  was  another  silence;  then  Ted  began  to 
whistle  softly  and  was  looking  over  the  railing  as 
if  interested  in  something  down  on  the  lawn. 

"And  you  say  people  are  really — talking  about 
Mildred,  Ted?"  Euth  finally  asked,  speaking  with 
apparent  effort. 

He  nodded.     "Some  people  are  snubbing  her. 


FIDELITY  241 

You  know  this  town  is  long  on  that,"  he  threw  in 
with  a  short  laugh.  "I  saw  Mrs.  Brewer — re 
member  her? — she  used  to  be  Dorothy  Hanlay — 
out  and  out  snub  Mildred  at  a  party  the  other 
night.  She  came  up  to  her  after  she'd  been  danc 
ing  with  Billy — Lord  knows  how  many  times  she'd 
danced  with  him  that  night — and  Mrs.  Brewer 
simply  cut  her.  I  saw  it  myself.  Mildred  got 
white  for  a  moment,  then  smiled  in  a  funny  little 
way  and  turned  away.  Tough  on  her,  wasn't 
it? — for  really,  she's  a  good  deal  of  a  kid,  you 
know.  And  say,  Euth,  there's  something  mighty 
decent  about  Edith — about  Mrs.  Blair.  She  saw 
it  and  right  afterwards  she  went  up  to  Mildred, 
seemed  particularly  interested  in  her,  and  drew 
her  into  her  crowd.  Pretty  white,  don't  you 
think?  That  old  hen — Mrs.  Brewer — got  red,  let 
me  tell  you,  for  Edith  can  put  it  all  over  her,  you 
know,  on  being  somebody,  and  that  got  her — good 
and  plenty!" 

There  was  a  queer  little  sound  from  Euth,  a 
sound  like  a  not  quite  suppressed  sob;  Ted  rose, 
as  if  for  leaving,  and  stood  there  awkwardly,  his 
back  to  her.  He  felt  that  Euth  was  crying,  or  at 
least  trying  not  to  cry.  Why  had  he  talked  of  a 
thing  like  that?  Why  did  he  have  to  bring  in 
Edith  Lawrence? 

It  seemed  better  to  go  on  talking  about  it  now, 
as  naturally  as  he  could.  "I  never  thought  there 
was  much  to  Mildred,"  he  resumed,  not  turn- 


242  FIDELITY 

ing  round.  "She  always  seemed  sort  of  stuck  up 
with  the  fellows  of  our  crowd.  But  I  guess  you 
never  can  tell.  I  saw  her  look  at  Billy  Archer  the 
other  night."  He  paused  with  a  little  laugh. 
"There  wasn't  anything  very  stuck  up  about  that 
look." 

As  still  Euth  did  not  speak  he  began  to  talk 
about  the  property  across  the  street  being  for  sale. 
When  he  turned  around  for  taking  leave — it  being 
past  the  time  for  going  to  Harriett's — it  made  him 
furious  at  himself  to  see  how  strained  and  miser 
able  Euth's  face  was.  She  scarcely  said  good-by 
to  him;  she  was  staring  down  the  street  where 
Mildred  had  disappeared  a  few  moments  before. 
All  the  way  over  to  Harriett's  he  wondered  just 
what  Euth  was  thinking.  He  was  curious  as  well 
as  self -reproachful. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 

When  Ted  entered  the  living-room  at  his  sister 
Harriett's  he  felt  as  if  something  damp  and  heavy 
had  been  thrown  around  him.  He  got  the  feeling 
of  being  expected  to  contribute  to  the  oppressive 
ness  of  the  occasion.  The  way  no  one  was  sitting 
in  a  comfortable  position  seemed  to  suggest  that 
constraint  was  deemed  fitting.  Cyrus  was  talking 
to  Mr.  McFarland  with  a  certain  self-conscious 
decorousness.  Harriett's  husband,  the  Eev. 
Edgar  Tyler,  sat  before  the  library  table  in  more 
of  his  pulpit  manner  than  was  usual  with  him  in 
his  household,  as  if — so  it  seemed  to  Ted — the  re 
lation  of  death  to  the  matter  in  hand  brought  it 
particularly  within  his  province.  Ted  had  never 
liked  him;  especially  he  had  hated  his  attitude 
about  Euth — his  avowed  sorrowfulness  with  which 
the  heart  had  nothing  to  do.  He  resented  the  way 
his  brother-in-law  had  made  Harriett  feel  that  she 
owed  it  to  the  community,  to  the  church,  not  to 
countenance  her  sister.  Harriett  had  grown  into 
that  manner  of  striving  to  do  the  right  thing. 
She  had  it  now — sitting  a  little  apart  from  the 
others,  as  if  not  to  intrude  herself.  Sitting  there 
with  those  others  his  heart  went  out  to  Euth;  he 
was  for  her,  he  told  himself  warmly,  and  he'd  take 

243 


244  FIDELITY 

nothing  off  of  Cy  about  her,  either !  He  watched 
Cyrus  and  thought  of  how  strange  it  was  that  a 
brother  and  sister  should  be  as  different  as  he  and 
Euth  were.  They  had  always  been  different;  as 
far  back  as  he  could  remember  they  were  different 
about  everything.  Euth  was  always  keyed  up 
about  something — delighted,  and  Cy  was  always 
"putting  a  crimp"  in  things.  As  a  little  boy, 
when  he  told  Euth  things  he  was  pleased  about 
they  always  grew  more  delightful  for  telling  her ; 
and  somehow  when  you  told  Cyrus  about  a  jolly 
thing  it  always  flattened  out  a  little  in  the  tell 
ing. 

A  shrinking  from  the  appearance  of  too  great 
haste  gave  a  personal  color  to  the  conversation. 
It  was  as  old  friend  quite  as  much  as  family  solici 
tor  that  the  lawyer  talked  to  them,  although  the 
occasion  for  getting  together  that  night  was  that 
Cyrus  might  learn  of  an  investment  of  his  father's 
which  demanded  immediate  attention. 

Mr.  McFarland  spoke  of  that,  and  then  of  how 
little  else  remained.  He  hesitated,  then  ventured : 
"You  know,  I  presume,  that  your  father  has  not 
left  you  now  what  he  would  have  had  ten  years 


Ted  saw  Cyrus's  lips  tighten,  his  eyes  lower. 
He  glanced  at  Harriett,  who  looked  resigned; 
though  he  was  not  thinking  much  of  them,  but  of 
his  father,  who  had  met  difficulties,  borne  disap 
pointments.  He  was  thinking  of  nights  when  his 


FIDELITY  245 

father  came  home  tired;  mornings  when  he  went 
away  in  that  hurried,  harassed  way.  He  could 
see  him  sitting  in  his  chair  brooding.  The  picture 
of  him  now  made  him  appear  more  lonely  than  he 
had  thought  of  him  while  living.  And  now  his 
father  was  dead  and  they  were  sitting  there  talk 
ing  over  his  affairs,  looking  into  things  that  their 
father  had  borne  alone,  things  he  had  done  the 
best  he  could  about.  He  wished  he  had  tried 
harder  to  be  company  for  him.  In  too  many  of 
those  pictures  which  came  now  his  father  was 
alone. 

He  heard  Cyrus  speaking.  "Yes,"  he  was 
saying,  "father  was  broken  by  our  personal 
troubles."  There  was  a  pause.  Ted  did  not 
raise  his  eyes  to  his  brother.  He  did  not  want 
to  look  at  him,  not  liking  his  voice  as  he  said 
that.  "It  is  just  another  way,"  Cyrus  went  on, 
' '  in  which  we  all  have  to  suffer  for  our  family  dis 
grace." 

Ted  felt  himself  flushing.  Why  need  Cy  have 
said  that?  Mr.  McFarland  had  turned  slightly 
away,  as  if  not  caring  to  hear  it. 

And  then  Cyrus  asked  about  their  father's  will. 

The  attorney's  reply  was  quiet.  "He  leaves 
no  will." 

Ted  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  Then  he  looked 
at  Cyrus  and  saw  his  startled,  keen,  queer  look  at 
the  attorney.  It  was  after  seeing  his  brother's 
face  that  he  realized  what  this  meant — that  if  his 


246  FIDELITY 

father  left  no  will  Euth  shared  with  the  rest  of 
them.  Suddenly  his  heart  was  beating  fast. 

i  '  How 's  that  ? ' '  Cyrus  asked  sharply. 

"  There  was  a  will,  but  he  destroyed  it  about 
two  month's  ago." 

"He — 1  Why?"  Cyrus  pressed  in  that  sharp 
voice. 

Ted  felt  certain  that  the  lawyer  liked  saying 
what  he  had  to  say  then.  He  said  it  quietly,  but 
looking  right  at  Cyrus.  "He  destroyed  his  will 
because  it  cut  off  his  daughter  Euth." 

Ted  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window,  stood 
there  staring  out  at  the  street  lights.  Bless  dad ! 
He  wished  he  could  see  him;  he  would  give  almost 
anything  to  see  him  for  just  a  minute.  He  wished 
he  had  known;  he  would  love  to  have  told  his 
father  just  how  corking  he  thought  that  was.  He 
stood  there  a  minute  not  wanting  to  show  the 
others  how  much  he  was  feeling — this  new,  warm 
rush  of  love  for  his  father,  and  his  deep  gladness 
for  Euth.  He  thought  of  what  it  would  mean  to 
her,  what  it  would  mean  to  know  her  father  had 
felt  like  that.  He  had  had  to  leave  her  there  at 
home  alone;  now  he  could  go  home  and  tell  her 
this  news  that  would  mean  so  much. 

When  he  turned  back  to  the  group  it  was  to  see 
that  he  was  not  alone  in  being  moved  by  what  they 
had  heard.  Harriett  too  had  turned  a  little  away 
from  the  others  and  was  looking  down.  He  saw 
a  tear  on  her  face — and  liked  her  better  than  he 


FIDELITY  247 

ever  had  before.  Then  he  looked  at  her  husband 
and  in  spite  of  all  he  was  feeling  it  was  hard  not 
to  smile;  his  brother-in-law's  face  looked  so  comi 
cal  to  him,  trying  to  twist  itself  into  the  fitting 
emotions.  Ted  watched  him  unsparingly  for  a 
minute,  maliciously  saying  to  himself:  "Keep 
on,  old  boy,  you'll  make  it  after  a  little !" 

Then  he  looked  at  his  brother  and  his  face  hard 
ened,  seeing  too  well  what  new  feeling  this  roused 
in  Cyrus  against  Euth,  reading  the  resentment 
toward  their  father  for  this  final  weakening  in  his 
stand  against  her. 

"Well — "  Cyrus  began  but  did  not  go  on,  his 
lips  tightening. 

"Your  father  said,"  the  lawyer  added,  "that 
if  there  was  one  of  his  children — more  than  the 
others — needed  what  he  could  do  for  her,  it  was 
his  daughter  Euth. ' ' 

He  was  looking  at  Ted,  and  Ted  nodded  eagerly, 
thinking  now  of  what,  in  the  practical  sense,  this 
would  mean  to  Euth.  Mr.  McFarland  turned  back 
to  Cyrus  as  he  remarked:  "He  spoke  of  Euth 
with  much  feeling." 

Cyrus  flushed.  "I  guess  father  was  pretty 
much  broken — in  mind  as  well  as  body — at  that 
time,"  he  said  unpleasantly. 

"His  mind  was  all  right,"  answered  the  lawyer 
curtly. 

He  left  a  few  minutes  later ;  Harriett,  who  went 
with  him  to  the  door,  did  not  return  to  the  room. 


248  FIDELITY 

The  two  men  and  Ted  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence. 
Then  Cyrus  turned  upon  him  as  if  angered  by 
what  he  divined  him  to  be  feeling.  "Well,"  he 
said  roughly,  "I  suppose  you're  pleased ?" 

"I'm  pleased,  all  right,"  replied  Ted  with  sat 
isfaction.  He  looked  at  the  minister.  "Good 
thing,  for  I  guess  I'm  the  only  fellow  here  who 
is." 

Harriett's  husband  colored  slightly.  "I  am 
neither  pleased  nor  displeased,"  was  his  grave  re 
ply.  "Surely  it  was  for  your  father  to  do  as  he 
wished.  For  a  father  to  forgive  a  child  is — mov 
ing.  I  only  hope,"  he  added,  "that  it  will  not 
seem  in  the  community  to  mean  the  countenanc 
ing — "  He  paused,  looking  to  Cyrus  for  ap 
proval. 

Then  Ten  blazed  out.  "Well,  if  you  want  to 
know  what  I  think,  I  don 't  think  a  little  '  counten 
ancing'  of  Euth  is  going  to  do  this  community — 
or  anybody  else — any  harm ! ' ' 
4  Cyrus  looked  at  him  with  that  slightly  sneering 
smile  that  always  enraged  Ted.  "You're  proud 
of  your  sister,  I  suppose!"  he  inquired  politely. 

Ted  reddened.  Then  he  grew  strangely  quiet. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  believe  I  am.  I've  come 
pretty  close  to  Euth  these  last  few  days,  and  I 
think  that's  just  what  I  am — proud  of  her.  I 
can't  say  I'm  proud  of  what  Euth  did;  I'd  have 
to  think  more  about  that.  But  I  'm  proud  of  what 
she  is.  And  I  don't  know — I  don't  know  but  what 


FIDELITY  249 

it's  what  a  person  is  that  counts."  He  fell  silent, 
thinking  of  what  he  meant  by  that,  of  the  things 
he  felt  in  Buth. 

Cyrus  laughed  mockingly.  "  Bather  a  curious 
thing  to  be  proud  of,  I  should  say.  What  she  'is' 
is—  " 

Ted  jumped  up.  "Don't  say  it,  Cy!  What 
ever  it  is  you're  going  to  say — just  don't  say 
it!" 

Cyrus  had  risen  and  was  putting  in  his  pocket  a 
paper  Mr.  McFarland  had  given  him.  ' i  No  ? "  he 
said  smoothly,  as  if  quite  unperturbed.  "And 
why  not!" 

At  that  uncaring  manner  something  seemed  to 
break  inside  Ted's  head,  as  if  all  the  things  Cyrus 
had  said  about  Buth  had  suddenly  gathered  there 
and  pressed  too  hard.  His  arm  shot  out  at  his 
brother. 

"That's  why  not!"  he  cried. 

He  had  knocked  Cyrus  back  against  the  wall 
and  stood  there  threatening  him.  To  the  minister, 
who  had  stepped  up,  protesting,  he  snapped: 
"None  of  your  put-in!  And  after  this,  just  be  a 
little  more  careful  in  your  talk — see?" 

He  stepped  back  from  Cyrus  but  stood  there 
glaring,  breathing  hard  with  anger.  Cyrus, 
whose  face  had  gone  white,  but  who  was  calm, 
went  back  to  the  table  and  resumed  what  he  had 
been  doing  there. 

"A  creditable  performance,  I  must  say,  for  the 


250  FIDELITY 

day  of  your  father's  funeral,"  lie  remarked  after 
a  moment. 

"That's  all  right!"  retorted  Ted.  "Don't 
think  I'm  sorry!  I  don't  know  any  better  way  to 
start  out  new — start  out  alone — than  to  tell  you 
what  I  think  of  you! — let  you  know  that  I'll  not 
take  a  thing  off  of  you  about  Euth.  You've  done 
enough,  Cy.  Now  you  quit.  You  kept  mother 
and  father  away  when  they  didn't  want  to  be  kept 
away — and  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I'm  on  to  you, 
anyway.  Don't  think  for  a  minute  that  I  believe 
it's  your  great  virtue  that's  hurting  you.  You 
can't  put  that  over  on  me.  It's  pride  and  stub 
bornness  and  just  plain  meanness  makes  you  the 
way  you  are!  Yes,  I'm  glad  to  have  a  chance  to 
tell  you  what  I  think  of  you — and  then  I  'm  through 
with  you,  Cy.  I  think  you  're  a  pin-head !  Why, 
you  haven't  got  the  heart  of  a  flea!  I  don't  know 
how  anybody  as  fine  as  Euth  ever  came  to  have  a 
brother  like  you ! ' ' 

His  feeling  had  grown  as  he  spoke,  and  he  stop 
ped  now  because  he  was  too  close  to  losing  con 
trol  ;  he  reddened  as  his  brother — calm,  apparently 
unmoved — surveyed  him  as  if  mildly  amused. 
That  way  Cyrus  looked  at  him  when  they  were 
quarrelling  always  enraged  him.  If  he  would 
only  say  something — not  stand  there  as  if  he  were 
too  superior  to  bother  himself  with  such  a  thing! 
He  knew  Cyrus  knew  it  maddened  him — that  that 
was  why  he  did  it,  and  so  it  was  quietly  that  he  re- 


FIDELITY  251 

sumed:  "No,  Cy,  I'm  not  with  yon,  and  yon 
might  as  well  know  it.  I'm  for  Kuth.  You've 
got  the  world  on  your  side — and  I  know  the  argu 
ments  you  can  put  up,  and  all  that,  but  Ruth's  got 
a — "  he  fumbled  a  minute  for  the  words — "Ruth's 
got  a  power  and  an  understanding  about  her  that 
you'll  never  have.  She's  got  a  heart.  More  than 
that,  she's  got — character." 

He  paused,  thinking,  and  Cyrus  did  speak  then. 
"Oh,  I  don't  think  I'd  use  that  word,"  he  said 
suavely. 

"No,  you  wouldn't;  you  wouldn't  see  it,  but 
that's  just  what  I  mean."  He  turned  to  the  min 
ister.  "Character,  I  say,  is  what  my  sister  Euth 
has  got.  Character  is  something  more  than  put 
ting  up  a  slick  front.  It's  something  more  than 
doing  what's  expected  of  you.  It's  a  kind  of — a 
kind  of  being  faithful  to  yourself.  Being  your 
self.  Oh,  I  know — "  at  a  sound  from  his 
brother — "just  how  you  can  laugh  at  it,  but 
there's  something  to  it  just  the  same.  Why, 
Ruth's  got  more  real  stuff  in  her  than  you  two 
put  together!  After  being  with  her  these  days 
you,  Cy,  strike  a  fellow  as  pretty  shallow." 

That  brought  the  color  to  his  brother's  face. 
Stung  to  a  real  retort,  he  broke  out  with  consid 
erable  heat:  "If  to  have  a  respect  for  decency 
is  l  shallow' — !"  He  quickly  checked  himself  as 
the  door  opened  and  Harriett's  maid  entered. 

She  paused,  feeling  the  tension,  startled  by  their 


252  FIDELITY 

faces.  " Excuse  me,  sir,"  she  said  to  the  minis 
ter,  "but  Mrs.  Tyler  said  I  was  to  tell  you  she  had 
gone  out  for  a  few  minutes.  She  said  to  tell  you 
she  had  gone  to  see  her  sister. " 

She  looked  startled  at  Ted's  laugh.  After  she 
had  gone  he  laughed  again.  "Hard  luck!"  he 
said  to  his  brother-in-law,  and  walked  from  the 
room. 

He  did  not  go  directly  home.  He  was  too  upset 
to  face  Ruth  just  then;  he  did  not  want  her  to 
know,  it  would  trouble  her.  And  he  wanted  to 
walk — walk  as  fast  as  he  could,  walk  off  steam,  he 
called  it.  His  heart  was  pounding  and  there 
seemed  too  much  blood  in  his  head.  But  he 
wasn't  sorry,  he  told  himself.  Cy  would  have  it 
in  for  him  now,  but  what  did  he  care  for  that  I 
He  could  get  along  without  him.  But  his  lips 
trembled  as  he  thought  that.  He  had  had  to  get 
along  without  his  mother ;  from  now  on  he  would 
have  to  get  along  without  his  father.  He  had  a 
ihoment  of  feeling  very  much  alone.  And  then  he 
thought  of  Euth.  Yes, — there  was  Euth!  He 
wheeled  toward  home.  He  wanted  to  tell  her. 
He  hoped  Harriett  hadn't  got  it  told;  he  wanted 
to  tell  her  himself.  Bless  dad!  He  loved  him 
for  doing  that.  If  only  he'd  known  it  in  time  to 
let  him  know  what  he  thought  of  him  for  doing 
it! 


CHAPTEE  TWENTY-TWO 

Harriett  had  been  with  Euth  for  half  an  hour 
and  still  she  had  not  told  her  what  she  had  come 
to  tell  her.  She  was  meaning  to  tell  it  before  she 
left,  to  begin  it  any  minute  now,  but,  much  as 
she  wanted  to  tell  it,  she  shrank  from  doing  so. 
It  seemed  that  telling  that  would  open  everything 
up — and  they  had  opened  nothing  up.  Harriett 
had  grown  into  a  way  of  shrinking  back  from  the 
things  she  really  wanted  to  do,  was  unpracticed 
in  doing  what  she  felt  like  doing. 

Acting  upon  an  impulse,  she  had  started  for 
Euth.  There  had  been  a  moment  of  real  defiance 
when  she  told  Mamie  to  tell  Mr.  Tyler  that  she 
had  gone  to  see  her  sister.  She  had  a  right  to  go 
and  see  her  sister !  No  one  should  keep  her  from 
it.  Her  heart  was  stirred  by  what  her  father  had 
done  about  Euth.  It  made  her  know  that  she  too 
felt  more  than  she  had  shown.  His  having  done 
that  made  her  want  to  do  something.  It  moved 
her  to  have  this  manifestation  of  a  softening  she 
had  not  suspected.  It  reached  something  in  her, 
something  that  made  her  feel  a  little  more  free, 
more  bold,  more  loving.  His  defiance,  for  she 
felt  that  in  it  too,  struck  a  spark  in  her.  She  even 
had  a  secret  satisfaction  in  the  discomfiture  she 

253 


254  FIDELITY 

knew  this  revelation  of  her  father's — what  they 
would  call  weakening — caused  her  husband  and 
her  brother.  Unacknowledged  dissatisfactions  of 
her  own  sharpened  her  feeling  about  it.  She  had 
not  looked  at  either  her  husband  or  Cyrus  when 
the  announcement  was  made,  but  beneath  her  own 
emotion  was  a  secret,  unacknowledged  gloating  at 
what  she  knew  was  their  displeasure,  at  their  help 
lessness  to  resent.  Ted  was  a  dear  boy!  Ted's 
shining  eyes  somehow  made  her  know  just  how 
glad  she  herself  was. 

So  she  had  hurried  along,  stirred,  eager  to  tell 
Euth.  But  once  with  her  she  held  back  from  tell 
ing  her,  grew  absurdly  timid  about  it.  It  seemed 
so  much  else  might  come  when  that  came — things 
long  held  back,  things  hard  to  let  one's  self  talk 
about. 

And  then  Euth  was  so  strange  tonight.  After 
that  first  day  it  had  been  easy  to  talk  with  Euth ; 
that  first  embarrassment  over,  she  had  seemed 
simple  and  natural  and  Harriett  could  talk  with 
her  about  the  little  things  that  came  up  and  at 
times  just  forget  the  big  thing  that  held  them 
apart.  After  that  first  meeting  she  had  felt  much 
more  comfortable  with  Euth  than  she  would  have 
supposed  the  terrible  circumstances  would  let  her 
feel.  But  tonight  Euth  was  different,  constrained, 
timid;  she  seemed  holding  herself  back,  as  if 
afraid  of  something.  It  made  Harriett  conscious 
of  what  there  was  holding  them  apart.  She  did 


FIDELITY  255 

not  know  how  to  begin  what  she  had  been  so  eager 
to  tell. 

And  so  they  talked  of  surface  things — current 
things:  the  service  that  afternoon;  some  of  the 
relatives  who  had  been  there;  of  old  friends  of 
their  father's.  They  kept  away  from  the  things 
their  hearts  were  full  of. 

Euth  had  been  glad  to  see  Harriett;  it  touched 
her  that  Harriett  should  come.  But  she  was 
nervous  with  her;  it  was  true  that  she  was  hold 
ing  back.  That  new  assurance  which  had  helped 
her  through  the  last  few  days  had  deserted  her. 
Since  Ted  told  her  of  Mildred  that  inner  quiet 
from  which  assurance  drew  was  dispelled.  She 
seemed  struck  back — bewildered,  baffled.  Was  it 
always  to  be  that  way!  Every  time  she  gained 
new  ground  for  her  feet  was  she  simply  to  be 
struck  back  to  new  dismays,  new  incertitudes,  new 
pain?  Had  she  only  deluded  herself  in  that  feel 
ing  which  had  created  the  strengthening  calm  of 
the  last  few  days? 

After  Ted  left  her  she  had  continued  to  sit 
looking  down  the  street  where  Mildred  had  gone ; 
just  a  little  while  before  she  had  been  looking 
down  that  street  as  the  way  she  herself  had  gone — 
the  young  girl  giving  herself  to  love,  facing  all 
perils,  daring  all  things  for  the  love  in  her  heart. 
But  now  she  was  not  thinking  of  the  love  in 
Mildred's  heart;  she  was  thinking  of  the  perils 
around  her — the  pity  of  it — the  waiting  disaster. 


256  FIDELITY 

A  little  while  before  it  had  seemed  there  should 
always  be  a  place  in  the  world  for  love,  that 
things  shutting  love  out  were  things  unreal.  And 
now  she  longed  to  be  one  with  Edith  in  getting 
Mildred  back  to  those  very  things — those  unreal 
things  that  would  safeguard.  The  mockery  of  it 
beat  her  back,  robbing  her  of  the  assurance  that 
had  been  her  new  strength.  That  was  why  Har 
riett  found  her  strange,  hard  to  talk  to.  She 
wanted  to  cower  back.  She  tried  not  to  think  of 
Mildred — to  get  back  to  herself.  But  that  she 
could  not  do;  Mildred  was  there  in  between — 
confusing,  a  mockery. 

Harriett  spoke  of  the  house,  how  she  supposed 
the  best  thing  to  do  would  be  to  offer  it  for  sale. 
Euth  looked  startled  and  pained.  "It's  in  bad  re 
pair,"  Harriett  said;  "it's  all  run  down.  And 
then — there's  really  no  reason  for  keeping  it." 

And  then  they  fell  silent,  thinking  of  years 
gone — years  when  the  house  had  not  been  all  run 
down,  when  there  was  good  reason  for  keeping  it. 
To  let  the  house  go  to  strangers  seemed  the  final 
acknowledgment  that  all  those  old  things  had 
passed  away.  It  was  a  more  intimate,  a  sympa 
thetic  silence  into  which  that  feeling  flowed — each 
thinking  of  old  days  in  that  house,  each  knowing 
that  the  other  was  thinking  of  those  days.  Har 
riett  could  see  Euth  as  a  little  girl  running 
through  those  rooms.  She  remembered  a  certain 
little  blue  gingham  dress — and  Euth's  hair  braided 


FIDELITY  257 

down  her  back ;  pictures  of  Ruth  with  their  grand 
father,  their  mother,  their  father — all  those  three 
gone  now.  She  started  to  tell  Euth  what  she  had 
come  to  tell  her,  then  changed  it  to  something  else, 
still  holding  back,  afraid  of  emotion,  of  breaking 
through,  seeming  powerless  and  hating  herself 
for  being  powerless.  She  would  tell  that  a  little 
later — before  she  left.  She  would  wait  until  Ted 
came  in.  She  seized  upon  that,  it  let  her  out — 
let  her  out  from  the  thing  she  had  been  all  warm 
eagerness  to  do.  To  bridge  that  time  she  asked 
a  few  diffident  questions  about  the  West;  she 
really  wanted  very  much  to  know  how  Euth  lived, 
how  she  "managed."  But  she  put  the  questions 
carefully,  it  would  seem  reluctantly,  just  because 
almost  everything  seemed  to  lead  to  that  one 
thing, — the  big  thing  that  lay  there  between  her 
and  Euth.  It  was  hard  to  ask  questions  about  the 
house  Euth  lived  in  and  not  let  her  mind  get 
swamped  by  that  one  terrible  fact  that  she  lived 
there  with  Stuart  Williams — another  woman 's 
husband. 

Harriett 's  manner  made  Euth  bitter.  It  seemed 
Harriett  was  afraid  to  talk  to  her,  evidently  afraid 
that  at  any  moment  she  would  come  upon  some 
thing  she  did  not  want  to  come  near.  Harriett 
needn't  be  so  afraid! — she  wasn't  going  to  con-  v 
taminate  her. 

And   so   the  talk  became  a  pretty  miserable 
affair.    It  was  a  relief  when  Flora  Copeland  came 


258  FIDELITY 

in  the  room.    "There's  someone  here  to  see  you, 
Euth,"  she  said. 

"Deane?"  inquired  Euth. 

"No,  a  woman. " 

"A  woman?" — and  then,  at  the  note  of  aston 
ishment  in  her  own  voice  she  laughed  in  an  em 
barrassed  little  way. 

"Yes,  a  Mrs.  Herman.  She  says  you  may  re 
member  her  as  Annie  Morris.  She  says  she  went 
to  school  with  you." 

* '  Yes, ' '  said  Euth,  <  <  I  know. ' '  She  was  looking 
down,  pulling  at  her  handkerchief.  After  an  in 
stant  she  looked  up  and  said  quietly:  "Won't 
you  ask  her  to  come  in  here  ? ' ' 

The  woman  who  stood  in  the  doorway  a  moment 
later  gave  the  impression  of  life,  work,  having 
squeezed  her  too  hard.  She  had  quick  move 
ments,  as  if  she  were  used  to  doing  things  in  a 
hurry.  She  had  on  a  cheap,  plain  suit,  evidently 
bought  several  years  before.  She  was  very  thin, 
her  face  almost  pinched,  but  two  very  live  eyes 
looked  out  from  it.  She  appeared  embarrassed, 
but  somehow  the  embarrassment  seemed  only  a 
surface  thing.  She  held  out  a  red,  rough  hand  to 
Euth  and  smiled  in  quick,  bright  way  as  she 
said:  "I  don't  know  that  you  remember  me, 
Euth." 

"Oh,  yes  I  do,  Annie,"  Euth  replied,  and  held 
on  to  the  red,  rough  hand. 

"I  didn't  know;  I'm  sure,"  she  laughed,  "that 


FIDELITY  259 

you've  always  meant  more  to  me  than  I  could  to 
you." 

After  Buth  had  introduced  Harriett  the 
stranger  explained  that  with :  "I  thought  a  great 
deal  of  Buth  when  we  were  in  school  together. 
She  never  knew  it — she  had  so  many  friends. "  A 
little  pause  followed  that. 

"So  I  couldn't  bear  to  go  away,"  Annie  went  on 
in  her  rather  sharp,  bright  way,  "without  seeing 
you,  Buth.  I  hope  I'm  not  intruding,  coming  so 
— soon." 

"You  are  not  intruding,  Annie,"  said  Buth;  her 
voice  shook  just  a  little. 

Ted  had  come  home,  and  came  in  the  room  then 
and  was  introduced  to  Annie,  with  whom,  though 
frankly  surprised  at  seeing  her,  he  shook  hands 
warmly.  "But  we  do  know  each  other,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  laughed,  "IVe  brought  you 
many  a  cauliflower." 

' '  And  oh,  those  eggs ! "  he  laughed  back. 

Again  there  was  a  slight  pause,  and  then  Annie 
turned  to  Buth  with  the  manner  of  being  bound  to 
get  right  into  the  thing  she  had  come  to  say.  "I 
didn't  wait  longer,  Buth,  because  I  was  afraid  you 
might  get  away  and  I  wondered," — this  she  said 
diffidently,  as  one  perhaps  expecting  too  much — 
"if  there  was  any  chance  of  your  coming  out  to 
make  me  a  little  visit  before  you  go  back. 

"You  know,"— she  turned  hastily  to  Ted,  turn 
ing  away  from  the  things  gathering  in  Buth's 


260  FIDELITY 

eyes,  "the  country  is  so  lovely  now.  I  thought  it 
might  do  Euth  good.  She  must  be  tired,  after  the 
long  journey — and  all.  I  thought  a  good  rest — " 
She  turned  back  to  Euth.  "Don't  you  think, 
Euth,"  she  coaxed,  "that  you'd  like  to  come  out 
and  play  with  my  baby?" 

And  then  no  one  knew  what  to  do  for  suddenly 
Euth  was  shaken  with  sobs.  Ted  was  soothing 
her,  telling  Annie  that  naturally  she  was  nervous 
that  night.  "Ted,"  she  choked,  in  a  queer,  wild 
way,  laughing  through  the  sobs,  "did  you  hear? 
She  wants  me  to  come  out  and  play  with  her 
baby!" 

Harriett  got  up  and  walked  to  the  other  side  of 
the  room.  Euth — laughing,  crying — was  repeat 
ing:  "She  wants  me  to  play  with  her  baby!" 
Harriett  thought  of  her  own  children  at  home, 
whom  Euth  had  not  seen.  She  listened  to  the 
plans  Annie  and  Ted  and  Euth  were  making  and 
wretchedly  wished  she  had  done  differently  years 
before. 


CHAPTEE  TWENTY-THEEE 

Eutli  had  been  with  Annie  for  five  days  now; 
the  original  three  days  for  which  she  had  said  she 
could  come  had  been  lengthened  to  a  week,  and 
she  knew  that  she  would  not  want  to  go  even  then. 
For  here  was  rest.  Here  she  could  forget  about 
herself  as  set  apart  from  others.  Here  she  did 
not  seem  apart.  After  the  stress  of  those  days 
at  home  it  was  good  to  rest  in  this  simple  feeling 
of  being  just  one  with  others.  It  was  good  to  lie 
on  the  grass  under  the  trees,  troubled  thoughts  in 
abeyance,  and  feel  spring  in  the  earth,  take  it  in 
by  smell  and  sound.  It  was  wonderfully  good  to 
play  with  the  children,  to  lie  on  the  grass  and  let 
the  little  two  year  old  girl — Annie's  baby — pull 
at  her  hair,  toddling  around  her,  cooing  and  crow 
ing.  There  was  healing  in  that.  It  was  good  to  be 
some  place  where  she  did  not  seem  to  cause  em 
barrassment,  to  be  where  she  was  wanted.  After 
the  strain  of  recent  events  the  simple  things  of 
these  days  were  very  sweet  to  her.  It  had  become 
monstrous  always  to  have  to  feel  that  something 
about  her  made  her  different  from  other  people. 
There  was  something  terrible  in  it — something  not 
good  for  one.  Here  was  release  from  that. 

And  it  was  good  to  be  with  Annie ;  they  had  not 

261 


262  FIDELITY 

talked  much  yet — not  seriously  talked.  Annie 
seemed  to  know  that  it  was  rest  in  little  things 
Euth  needed  now,  not  talk  of  big  ones.  They 
talked  about  the  chickens  and  the  cows,  the  flowers 
and  the  cauliflowers,  about  the  children's  pranks. 
It  was  restoring  to  talk  thus  of  inconsequential 
things;  Euth  was  beginning  to  feel  more  herself 
than  she  had  felt  in  years.  On  that  fifth  day  her 
step  was  lighter  than  when  she  came ;  it  was  easier 
to  laugh.  Hers  had  once  been  so  sunny  a  nature ; 
it  was  amazingly  easy  to  break  out  of  the  morose- 
ness  with  which  circumstances  had  clouded  her 
into  that  native  sunniness.  That  afternoon  she 
sat  on  the  knoll  above  the  house,  leaning  back 
against  a  tree  and  smiling  lazily  at  the  gamboling 
of  the  new  little  pigs. 

Annie  was  directing  the  boy  who  had  been  help 
ing  her  cut  asparagus  to  carry  the  baskets  up 
where  Euth  was  sitting.  "I'm  going  to  talk  to 
you  while  I  make  this  into  bunches,  Euth,"  she 
called. 

"I'll  help,"  Euth  called  back  with  zest. 

They  talked  at  first  of  the  idiosyncrasies  of 
asparagus  beds,  of  the  marketing  of  it ;  then  some 
thing  Annie  said  set  Euth  thinking  of  something 
that  had  happened  when  they  were  in  high  school. 
"Oh,  do  you  remember,  Annie — "  she  laughingly 
began.  There  was  that  sort  of  talk  for  awhile — 
"Do  you  remember  ...  !"  and  "Oh,  whatever 
became  of  ...  I" 


FIDELITY  263 

As  they  worked  on  Euth  thought  of  the  strange 
ness  of  her  being  there  with  this  girl  who,  when 
they  were  in  school  together,  had  meant  so  little  to 
her.  Her  own  work  lagged,  watching  Annie  as 
with  quick,  sure  motions  she  made  the  asparagus 
into  bunches  for  market.  She  did  things  deftly 
and  somehow  gave  the  feeling  of  subordinating 
them  to  something  else,  of  not  letting  them  take 
all  of  her.  Euth  watched  her  with  affectionate 
interest;  she  wore  an  all-over  gingham  apron,  her 
big  sun  hat  pushed  back  from  her  browned,  thin 
face ;  she  was  not  at  all  attractive  unless  one  saw 
the  eager,  living  eyes — keenly  intelligent  eyes. 
Euth  thought  of  her  other  friends — the  girls  who 
had  been  her  friends  when  she  was  in  school  and 
whom  she  had  not  seen  now;  she  wondered  why 
it  was  Annie  had  none  of  the  feeling  that  kept 
those  other  girls  away. 

Annie's  husband  was  a  slow,  stolid  man;  Euth 
supposed  that  in  his  youth,  when  Annie  married 
him,  he  had  perhaps  been  attractive  in  his  stal- 
wartness.  He  was  sluggish  now;  good  humored 
enough,  but  apparently  as  heavy  in  spirit  as  in 
body.  Things  outside  the  material  round  of  life 
— working,  eating,  sleeping — simply  did  not  seem 
to  exist  for  him.  At  first  she  wondered  how  Annie 
could  be  content  with  life  with  him,  Annie,  who 
herself  was  so  keenly  alive.  Thinking  of  it  now 
it  seemed  Annie  had  the  same  adjustment  to  him 
that  she  had  to  the  asparagus, — something  sub- 


264  FIDELITY 

ordinated,  not  taking  up  very  much  of  herself. 
She  had  about  Annie,  and  she  did  not  know  just 
why  she  had  it,  the  feeling  that  here  was  a  person 
who  could  not  be  very  greatly  harmed,  could  not 
be  completely  absorbed  by  routine,  could  not,  for 
some  reason  she  could  not  have  given,  be  utterly 
vanquished  by  any  circumstance.  She  went  about 
her  work  as  if  that  were  one  thing — and  then  there 
were  other  things ;  as  if  she  were  in  no  danger  of 
being  swallowed  up  in  her  manner  of  living. 
There  was  something  apart  that  was  dauntless. 
Euth  wondered  about  her,  she  wanted  to  find  out 
about  her.  She  wanted  for  herself  that  valiant 
spirit,  a  certain  unconquerableness  she  felt  in 
Annie. 

Annie  broke  a  pause  to  say:  "You  can't  know, 
Ruth,  how  much  it  means  to  have  you  here." 

Buth's  face  lighted  and  she  smiled;  she  started 
to  speak,  but  instead  only  smiled  again.  She 
wanted  to  tell  what  it  meant  to  her  to  be  there,  but 
that  seemed  a  thing  not  easily  told. 

i  i  I  wish  you  could  stay  longer, ' '  Annie  went  on, 
all  the  while  working.  "So — "  she  paused,  and 
continued  a  little  diffidently — "so  we  could  really 
get  acquainted;  really  talk.  I  hardly  ever  have 
anyone  to  talk  to, ' '  she  said  wistfully.  ' '  One  gets 
pretty  lonely  sometimes.  It  would  be  good  to  have 
someone  to  talk  to  about  the  things  one  thinks. ' ' 

"What  are  the  things  you  think,  Annie?"  Euth 
asked  impulsively. 


FIDELITY!  265 

"Oh,  no  mighty  thoughts,"  laughed  Annie; 
"but  of  course  I'm  always  thinking  about  things. 
We  keep  alive  by  thinking,  don't  we?" 

Ruth  gave  her  a  startled  look. 

"Perhaps  it's  because  I  haven't  had  from  life 
itself  much  of  what  I'd  like  to  have,"  Annie  was 
going  on,  "that  I've  made  a  world  within.  Can't 
let  life  cheat  us,  Euth, ' '  she  said  brightly.  "If  we 
can't  have  things  in  one  way — have  to  get  them 
in  another." 

Again  Euth  looked  at  her  in  that  startled  way. 
Annie  did  not  see  it,  reaching  over  for  more  aspar 
agus  ;  she  was  all  the  time  working  along  in  that 
quick,  sure  way — doing  what  she  was  doing  clev 
erly  and  as  if  it  weren't  very  important.  "Per 
haps,  Euth,"  she  said  after  a  minute,  "that  that's 
why  my  school-girl  fancy  for  you  persisted — 
deepened — the  way  it  has."  She  hesitated,  then 
said  simply:  "I  liked  you  for  not  letting  life 
cheat  you. ' 9 

She  looked  up  with  a  quick  little  nod  as  she  said 
that  but  found  Euth's  face  very  serious,  troubled. 
"But  I  don't  think  I've  done  what  you  mean, 
Annie, ' '  she  began  uncertainly.  ' i  I  did  what  I  did 
— because  I  had  to.  And  I'm  afraid  I  haven't— 
gone  on.  It  begins  to  seem  to  me  now  that  I've 
stayed  in  a  pretty  small  place.  I  've  been  afraid ! ' ' 
she  concluded  with  sudden  scorn. 

"That  isn't  much  wonder,"  Annie  murmured 
gently. 


266  FIDELITY 

"But  with  me,"  she  took  it  up  after  a  little, 
' '  I  've  had  to  go  on. ' '  Her  voice  went  hard  in  say 
ing  it.  ' '  Things  would  have  just  shut  right  down 
on  me  if  I  would  have  let  them,"  she  finished 
grimly. 

4  'I  married  for  passion,"  she  began  quietly  after 
a  minute.  "Most  people  do,  I  presume.  At  least 
most  people  who  marry  young." 

Euth  colored.  She  was  not  used  to  saying 
things  right  out  like  that. 

"Eomantic  love  is  a  wonderful  thing,"  Annie 
pursued;  "I  suppose  it's  the  most  beautiful  thing 
in  the  world — while  it  lasts."  She  laughed  in  a 
queer,  grim  little  way  and  gave  a  sharp  twist  to 
the  knot  she  was  tying.  i  i  Sometimes  it  opens  up 
to  another  sort  of  love — love  of  another  quality — 
and  to  companionship.  It  must  be  a  beautiful 
thing — when  it  does  that."  She  hesitated  a  mo 
ment  before  she  finished  with  a  dryness  that  had 
that  grim  quality :  *  '  With  me — it  didn  't. 

"So  there  came  a  time,"  she  went  on,  and 
seemed  newly  to  have  gained  serenity,  "when  I 
saw  that  I  had  to  give  up — go  under — or  get 
through  myself  what  I  wasn't  going  to  get  through 
anyone  else.  Oh,  it's  not  the  beautiful  way — not 
the  complete  way.  But  it's  one  way ! ' '  she  flashed 
in  fighting  voice.  "I  fought  for  something,  Euth. 
I  held  it.  I  don't  know  that  I've  a  name  for  it — 
but  it's  the  most  precious  thing  in  life.  My  life 
itself  is  pretty  limited;  aside  from  the  children" 


FIDELITY  267 

— she  softened  in  speaking  of  them — "my  life  is — 
pretty  barren.  And  as  for  the  children " — that 
fighting  spirit  broke  sharply  through,  "they're  all 
the  more  reason  for  not  sinking  into  things — not 
sinking  into  them/'  she  laughed. 

As  she  stopped  there  Euth  asked  eagerly,  eyes 
intently  upon  her :  ' '  But  just  what  is  it  you  mean, 
Annie?  Just  what  is  it  you  fought  for — kept?" 

"To  be  my  own!"  Annie  flashed  back  at  her, 
like  steel. 

Then  she  changed ;  for  the  first  time  her  work 
fell  unheeded  in  her  lap ;  the  eyes  which  a  minute 
before  had  flashed  fight  looked  far  off  and  were 
dreamy;  her  face,  over  which  the  skin  seemed  to 
have  become  stretched,  burned  by  years  of  sun  and 
wind,  quivered  a  little.  When  she  spoke  again  it 
was  firmly  but  with  sadness.  "It's  what  we  think 
that  counts,  Euth.  It's  what  we  feel.  It's  what 
we  are.  Oh,  I'd  like  richer  living — more  beauty 
— more  joy.  "Well,  I  haven't  those  things.  For 
various  reasons,  I  won't  have  them.  That  makes  it 
the  more  important  to  have  all  I  can  take!" — it 
leaped  out  from  the  gentler  thinking  like  a  sent 
arrow.  ' '  Nobody  holds  my  thoughts.  They  travel 
as  far  as  they  themselves  have  power  to  travel. 
They  bring  me  whatever  they  can  bring  me — and 
I  shut  nothing  out.  I  'm  not  afraid ! ' ' 

Euth  was  looking  at  her  with  passionate  ear 
nestness. 

"Over  there  in  that  town," — Annie  made  a  little 


268  FIDELITY 

gesture  toward  it,  "are  hundreds  of  women  who 
would  say  they  have  a  great  deal  more  than  I  have. 
And  it's  true  enough, "  she  laughed,  "that  they 
have  some  things  I'd  like  to  have.  But  do  you 
think  I'd  trade  with  them?  Oh,  no!  Not  much! 
The  free  don't  trade  with  the  bond,  Ruth." 

And  still  Euth  did  not  speak,  but  listened  with 
that  passionate  intentness. 

"There  in  that  town,"  Annie  went  on,  "are 
people — most  a  whole  townful  of  them — who  are 
going  through  life  without  being  really  awake  to 
life  at  all.  They  move  around  in  a  closed  place, 
doing  the  same  silly  little  things — copy-cats — re 
peaters.  They're  not  their  own — they're  not 
awake.  They're  like  things  run  by  machinery. 
Like  things  going  in  their  sleep.  Take  those  girls 
we  used  to  go  to  school  with.  Why,  take  Edith 
Lawrence.  I  see  her  sometimes.  She  always 
speaks  sweetly  to  me ;  she  means  to  be  nice.  But 
she  moves  round  and  round  in  her  little  place  and 
she  doesn't  even  know  of  the  wonderful  things  go- 
"ing  on  in  the  world  today!  Do  you  think  I'd 
trade  with  her? — social  leader  and  all  the  rest  of 
it!"  She  was  gathering  together  the  bundles  of 
asparagus.  She  had  finished  her  work.  "Very 
sweet — very  charming,"  she  disposed  of  Edith, 
"but  she  simply  doesn't  count.  The  world's  mov 
ing  away  from  her,  and  she," — Annie  laughed  with 
a  mild  scorn — "doesn't  even  know  that!" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR 

It  was  late  when  Ruth  went  to  sleep  that  night ; 
she  and  Annie  talked  through  the  evening — of. 
books  Annie  was  reading,  of  the  things  which  were 
interesting  her.  She  was  rich  in  interests ;  ideas 
were  as  personal  things  to  her;  she  found  per 
sonal  satisfactions  in  them.  She  was  following 
things  which  Ruth  knew  little  about ;  she  had  been 
long  away  from  the  centers  of  books,  and  out  of 
touch  with  awakened  people.  A  whole  new  world 
seemed  to  open  from  these  things  that  were  vital 
to  Annie ;  there  was  promise  in  them — a  quiet  road 
out  from  the  hard  things  of  self.  There  were 
new  poets  in  the  world ;  there  were  bold  new  think 
ers;  there  was  an  amazing  new  art;  science  was 
reinterpreting  the  world  and  workers  and  women 
were  setting  themselves  free.  Everywhere  the 
old  pattern  was  being  shot  through  with  new  ideas. 
Everywhere  were  new  attempts  at  a  better  way  of 
doing  things.  She  had  been  away  from  all  that; 
what  she  knew  of  the  world's  new  achievement  had 
seemed  unreal,  or  at  least  detached,  not  having 
any  touch  with  her  own  life.  But  as  disclosed  by 
Annie  those  things  became  realities — things  to  en 
rich  one's  own  life.  It  kindled  old  fires  of  her 
girlhood,  fanned  the  old  desire  to  know.  Personal 

269 


270  FIDELITY 

things  had  seemed  to  quell  that ;  the  storm  in  her 
own  life  had  shut  down  around  her.  Now  she 
saw  that  she,  like  those  others  whom  Annie 
scorned,  had  not  kept  that  openness  to  life,  had  let 
her  own  life  shut  her  in.  She  had  all  along  been 
eager  for  books,  but  had  not  been  fortunate  in  the 
things  she  had  come  upon.  She  had  not  had  ac 
cess  to  large  libraries — many  times  not  even  to 
small  ones;  she  had  had  little  money  for  buying 
books  and  was  so  out  of  touch  with  the  world  that 
she  had  not  had  much  initiative  in  trying  to  get 
hold  of  things.  She  felt  now  that  she  had  failed 
miserably  in  that,  but  there  were  years  when  she 
was  like  a  hurt  thing  that  keeps  in  hiding,  most  of 
all  wanting  to  escape  more  hurt.  It  had  been  a 
weakness — she  clearly  saw  that  now,  and  it  had 
been  weakening  to  her  powers.  Most  of  the  books 
she  had  come  upon  were  of  that  shut-in  life  Annie 
scorned,  written  from  within  that  static  living,  and 
for  it.  People  in  them  had  the  feeling  it  was 
right  people  should  have,  unless  there  were  bad 
people  in  the  book,  and  then  they  were  very  defi 
nitely  bad.  Many  of  those  books  had  been  not 
only  unsatisfying,  but  saddening  to  her,  causing 
her  to  feel  newly  apart  from  the  experiences  of 
people  of  her  kind. 

But  now  Annie's  books  let  her  glimpse  a  new 
world — a  world  which  questioned,  a  world  of  pro 
test,  of  experiment,  a  world  in  which  people  un 
afraid  were  trying  to  find  the  truth,  trying  to  build 


FIDELITY  271 

freshly,  to  supplant  things  outworn  with  the  vital 
forms  of  a  new  reality.  It  was  quickening.  It 
made  her  eager.  She  was  going  to  take  some  of 
those  books  home,  she  would  send  for  others, 
would  learn  how  to  keep  in  touch  with  this  new 
world  which  was  emerging  from  the  old.  It  was 
like  breaking  out  from  a  closed  circle.  It  was  ad 
venture  ! 

Even  after  she  went  to  her  room  that  night,  late 
though  it  was,  she  did  not  go  at  once  to  bed.  She 
sat  for  a  time  looking  off  at  the  lights  of  that  town 
for  which  she  had  so  long  grieved,  the  town  that 
had  shut  her  out.  The  fact  that  it  had  shut  her 
out  had  been  a  determining  thing  in  her  life,  to 
her  spirit.  She  wondered  now  if  perhaps  she  had 
not  foolishly  spent  herself  in  grieving  for  a  thing 
that  would  have  meant  little  could  she  have  had  it. 
For  it  seemed  now  that  it  had  remained  very  much 
a  fixed  thing,  and  now  she  knew  that,  with  it  all, 
she  herself  had  not  been  fixed.  The  things  of 
which  Annie  talked,  things  men  of  this  new  day 
were  expressing,  roused  her  like  this,  not  because 
they  were  all  new,  but  because  of  her  own  inner 
gropings.  Within  herself  she  had  been  stumbling 
toward  some  of  those  things.  Here  was  the  sure 
expression  of  some  halting  thoughts  of  her  own. 
It  was  exciting  to  find  that  there  were  people  who 
were  feeling  the  things  that,  even  in  that  timid, 
uncertain  way,  she  had  come  to  feel  by  herself. 
She  had  been  half  afraid  to  formulate  some  of  the 


272  FIDELITY 

things  that  had  come  into  her  mind.  This  gath 
ered  together  the  timid  little  shoots.  She  was 
excited  about  the  things  of  which  Annie  talked — 
those  new  ideals  of  freedom — not  so  much  because 
they  were  new  and  daring  and  illumining  things, 
as  because  they  did  not  come  all  alien.  There  was 
something  from  within  to  go  out  to  them.  In  that 
— not  that  there  were  interesting  things  she  could 
have  from  without — but  that  she,  opened  to  the 
new  stimulus,  could  become  something  from 
within,  was  the  real  excitation,  the  joy  of  the  new 
promise  was  there.  And  this  new  stir,  this 
promise  of  new  satisfactions,  let  her  feel  that  her 
life  was  not  all  mapped  out,  designed  ahead.  She 
went  to  sleep  that  night  with  a  wonderful  new  feel 
ing  of  there  being  as  much  for  her  in  life  as  she 
herself  had  power  to  take. 

And  she  woke  with  that  feeling ;  she  was  eager 
to  be  up,  to  be  out  in  the  sunshine.  Annie,  she 
found,  had  gone  early  to  town  with  her  vegetables. 
Euth  helped  eleven-year-old  Dorothy,  the  eldest 
child,  get  off  for  school  and  walked  with  her  to  the 
schoolhouse  half  a  mile  down  the  road.  The  little 
girl's  shyness  wore  away  and  she  chatted  with 
Euth  about  school,  about  teachers  and  lessons  and 
play.  Euth  loved  it ;  it  seemed  to  set  the  seal  of  a 
human  relationship  upon  her  new  feeling.  What  a 
wonderful  thing  for  Annie  to  have  these  children ! 
Today  gladness  in  there  being  children  in  the  world 
went  out  past  sorrow  in  her  own  deprivation.  The 


FIDELITY  273 

night  before  she  had  said  to  Annie,  "You  have 
your  children.  That  makes  life  worth  while  to  you, 
doesn't  it!"  And  Annie,  with  that  hard,  swift 
look  of  being  ruthless  for  getting  at  the  truth — 
for  getting  her  feeling  straight  and  expressing 
it  truly,  had  answered,  "Not  in  itself.  I  mean, 
it's  not  all.  I  think  much  precious  life  has 
gone  dead  under  that  idea  of  children  being  enough 
— letting  them  be  all.  We  count — I  count !  Just 
leaving  life  isn't  all;  living  it  while  we're  here — 
that  counts,  too.  And  keeping  open  to  it  in  more 
than  any  one  relationship.  Suppose  they,  in  their 
turn,  have  that  idea ;  then  life 's  never  really  lived, 
is  it? — always  just  passed  on,  always  put  off." 
They  had  talked  of  that  at  some  length.  "Cer 
tainly  I  want  my  children  to  have  more  than  I 
have,"  Annie  said.  "I  am  working  thajt  they 
may.  But  in  that  working  for  them  I'm  not  go 
ing  to  let  go  of  the  fact  that  I  count  too'.  Now's 
my  only  chance,"  she  finished  in  that  grim  little 
way  as  one  not  afraid  to  be  hard. 

Thinking  back  to  that  it  seemed  to  Euth  a  bigger 
mother  feeling  than  the  old  one.  It  was  not  the 
sort  of  maternal  feeling  to  hem  in  the  mother  and 
oppress  the  children.  It  was  love  in  freedom — 
love  that  did  not  hold  in  or  try  to  hold  in.  It 
would  develop  a  sense  of  the  preciousness  of  life. 
It  did  not  glorify  self-sacrifice — that  insidious  foe 
to  the  fullness  of  living. 

Thinking  of  that,  and  going  out  from  that  to 


274  FIDELITY 

other  things,  she  sat  down  on  a  log  by  the  roadside, 
luxuriating  in  the  opulence  and  freshness  of  the 
world  that  May  morning,  newly  tuned  to  life, 
vibrant  with  that  same  fresh  sense  of  it,  glad 
gratefulness  in  return  to  it,  that  comes  after  long 
sickness,  after  imprisonment.  The  world  was  full 
of  singing  birds  that  morning, — glorious  to  be  in  a 
world  of  singing  birds!  The  earth  smelled  so 
good!  There  were  plum  trees  in  bloom  behind 
her ;  every  little  breeze  brought  their  fragrance. 
The  grass  under  her  feet  was  springy — the  world! 
was  vibrant,  beautiful,  glad.  The  earth  seemed 
so  strong,  so  full  of  still  unused  powers,  so  ready 
to  give. 

She  sat  there  a  long  time;  she  had  the  courage 
this  morning  to  face  the  facts  of  her  life.  She 
was  eager  to  face  them,  to  understand  them  that 
she  might  go  on  understandingly.  She  had  the 
courage  to  face  the  facts  relating  to  herself  and 
Stuart.  That  was  a  thing  she  had  not  dared  do. 
With  them,  love  had  to  last,  for  love  was  all  they 
had.  They  had  only  each  other.  They  did  not 
dare  let  themselves  think  of  such  a  thing  as  the 
love  between  them  failing. 

Well,  it  had  not  failed;  but  she  let  herself  see 
now  how  greatly  it  had  changed.  There  was 
something  strangely  freeing  in  just  letting  herself 
see  it.  Of  course  there  had  been  change;  things 
always  changed.  Love  changed  within  marriage 
— she  did  not  know  why  she  should  expect  it  to  be 


FIDELITY  275 

different  with  her.  But  in  the  usual  way — within 
marriage — it  would  matter  less  for  there  would  be 
more  ways  of  adapting  one's  self  to  the  changing. 
Then  one  could  reach  out  into  new  places  in  life, 
gaining  new  channels,  taking  on  new  things  as 
old  ones  slipped  away,  finding  in  common  inter 
ests,  common  pleasures,  the  new  adjustment  for 
feeling.  But  with  them  life  had  seemed  to  shut 
right  down  around  them.  And  they  had  never 
been  able  to  relax  in  the  reassuring  sense  of  the 
lastingness  of  their  love.  She  had  held  herself 
tense  in  the  idea  that  there  was  no  change,  would 
be  none.  She  had  a  feeling  now  of  having  tried 
too  hard,  of  being  tired  through  long  trying. 
There  was  relief  in  just  admitting  that  she  was 
tired.  And  so  she  let  herself  look  at  it  now,  ad 
mitting  that  she  had  been  clutching  at  a  vanished 
thing. 

It  would  have  been  different,  she  felt,  had  the 
usual  channels  of  living  been  opened  to  them. 
Then  together  they  could  have  reached  out  into 
new  experiences.  Their  love  had  been  real — 
great.  Belated  to  living,  surely  it  could  have  re 
mained  the  heart  of  life.  Her  seeing  now  that 
much  of  the  life  had  gone  out  of  it  did  not  bear 
down  upon  her  with  the  great  sadness  she  would 
have  expected.  She  knew  now  that  in  her  heart 
she  had  known  for  a  long  time  that  passion  had 
gone.  Facing  it  was  easier  than  refusing  to  see. 
It  ceased  to  be  a  terrible  thing  once  one  looked  at 


276  FIDELITY 

it.  Of  this  she  was  sure :  love  should  be  able  to  be 
a  part  of  the  rest  of  life ;  the  big  relationship,  but 
one  among  others;  the  most  intense  interest,  but 
one  with  other  interests.  Unrooted,  detached,  it 
might  for  the  time  be  the  more  intense,  but  it  had 
less  ways  of  saving  itself.  If  simply,  naturally, 
they  could  have  grown  into  the  common  life  she 
felt  they  might  have  gone  on  without  too  much 
consciousness  of  change,  growing  into  new  things 
as  old  ones  died  away,  half  unconsciously  making 
adjustments,  doubtless  feeling  something  gone  but 
in  the  sharing  of  new  things  not  left  desolate 
through  that  sense  of  the  passing  of  old  ones. 
Frightened  by  the  thought  of  having  nothing  else, 
they  had  tried  too  hard.  She  was  tired;  she  be 
lieved  that  Stuart  too  was  tired. 

There  was  a  certain  tired  tenderness  in  her 
thinking  of  him.  Dear  Stuart,  he  loved  easy 
pleasant  living.  It  seemed  he  was  not  meant  for 
the  too  great  tests,  for  tragically  isolated  love. 
She  knew  that  he  had  never  ceased  to  miss  the 
things  he  had  let  go — his  place  among  men,  the 
stimulus  of  the  light,  pleasant  social  relationships 
with  women.  He  was  meant  for  a  love  more  flex 
ibly  related  to  living,  a  love  big  and  real  but  fitted 
more  loosely,  a  little  more  carelessly,  to  life. 
There  was  always  so  deep  a  contrition  for  his  irri 
tations  with  her.  The  whole  trouble  was  indi 
cated  right  there,  that  the  contrition  should  be  all 
out  of  proportion  to  the  offence.  It  would  have 


FIDELITY  277 

been  better  had  he  felt  more  free  to  be  irritated ; 
one  should  not  have  to  feel  frightened  at  a  little 
bit  of  one's  own  bad  temper — appalled  at  cross 
ness,  at  hours  of  ennui.  Driving  them  back  to 
gether  after  every  drifting  apart  all  of  that  made 
for  an  intensity  of  passion — passion  whipped  to 
life  by  fear.  But  that  was  not  the  way  to  grow 
into  life.  Flames  kindled  by  fear  made  intense 
moments  but  after  a  time  left  too  many  waste 
places  between  them  and  the  lives  of  men. 

Today  her  hope  for  the  future  was  in  the  open 
ing  of  new  places.  She  was  going  back  with  new 
vision,  new  courage.  They  must  not  any  longer 
cling  together  in  their  one  little  place,  coming 
finally  to  actual  resentment  of  one  another  for  the 
enforced  isolation.  They  must  let  themselves  go 
out  into  living,  dare  more,  trust  more,  lose  that 
fear  of  rebuff,  hope  for  more  from  life,  claim  more. 
As  she  rose  and  started  towards  home  there  was  a 
new  spring  in  her  step.  For  her  part,  she  was 
through  with  that  shrinking  back !  She  hoped  she 
could  bring  Stuart  to  share  her  feeling,  could  in 
spire  in  him  this  new  trust,  new  courage  that  had 
so  stimulated  and  heartened  her.  Her  hope  for 
their  future  lay  there. 

Climbing  a  hill  she  came  in  sight  of  the  little 
city  which  they  had  given  up,  for  which  they  had 
grieved.  Well,  they  had  grieved  too  much,  she 
resolutely  decided  now.  There  were  wider  hori 
zons  than  the  one  that  shut  down  upon  that  town. 


278  FIDELITY 

She  was  not  conquered!  She  would  not  be  con 
quered.  She  stood  on  the  hilltop  exulting  in  that 
sense  of  being  free.  She  had  been  a  weakling  to 
think  her  life  all  settled!  Only  cowards  and  the 
broken  in  spirit  surrendered  the  future  as  pay 
ment  for  the  past.  Love  was  the  great  and  beauti 
ful  wonder — but  surely  one  should  not  stay  with  it 
in  the  place  where  it  found  one.  Why,  loving 
should  light  the  way !  Far  from  engulfing  all  the 
rest  of  life  it  seemed  now  that  love  should  open 
life  to  one.  Whether  one  kept  it  or  whether  one 
lost  it,  it  failed  if  it  did  not  send  one  farther  along 
the  way.  She  had  been  afraid  to  think  of  her  love 
changing  because  that  had  seemed  to  grant  that  it 
had  failed.  But  now  it  seemed  that  it  failed  if  it 
did  not  leave  her  bigger  than  it  had  found  her: 
Her  eyes  filled  in  response  to  the  stern  beauty  of 
that.  Not  that  one  stay  with  love  in  the  same 
place,  but  rather  the  meaning  of  it  all  was  in  just 
this :  that  it  send  one  on. 

Eyes  still  dimmed  with  the  feeling  of  it,  she 
stood  looking  as  if  in  a  final  letting  go  at  that  town 
off  there  on  the  bend  of  the  river.  It  became  to 
her  the  world  of  shut-in  people,  people  not  going 
on,  people  who  loved  and  never  saw  the  meaning 
of  love,  whose  experiences  were  not  as  wings  to 
carry  them,  but  as  walls  shutting  them  in.  She 
was  through  grieving  for  those  people.  She  was 
going  on — past  them — so  far  beyond  them  that 
her  need  for  them  would  fall  away. 


FIDELITY  279 

She  was  conscious  of  an  approaching  horse  and 
buggy  and  stepped  aside ;  then  walked  on,  so  aglow 
with  her  own  thoughts  that  a  passing  by  did  not 
break  in  upon  her.  She  did  not  even  know  that 
the  girl  in  the  run-about  had  stopped  her  horse. 
At  the  cry:  "Oh — I'm  so  glad!"  she  was  as 
startled  as  if  she  had  thought  herself  entirely 
alone. 

It  was  a  big  effort  to  turn,  to  gather  herself 
together  and  speak.  She  had  been  so  far  away, 
so  completely  possessed  that  it  took  her  an  instant 
to  realize  that  the  girl  leaning  eagerly  toward  her 
was  Mildred  Woodbury. 

Mildred  was  moving  over  on  the  seat,  inviting 
her  to  get  in.  "  I  'm  so  glad ! ' '  she  repeated.  '  *  I 
went  to  Mrs.  Herman's,  and  was  so  disappointed 
to  miss  you.  I  thought  maybe  I'd  come  upon  you 
somewhere,"  she  laughed  gladly,  though  not  with 
out  embarrassment. 

There  was  a  moment  of  wanting  to  run  away,  of 
really  considering  it.  She  knew  now — had  re 
membered,  realized — what  it  was  about  Mildred. 


CHAPTEE  TWENTY-FIVE 

Her  instinct  to  protect  herself  from  this  young 
girl  was  the  thing  that  gained  composure  for  her. 
At  first  it  was  simply  one  of  those  physical  in 
stincts  that  draw  us  back  from  danger,  from  pain ; 
and  then  she  threw  the  whole  force  of  her  will  to 
keeping  that  semblance  of  composure.  Her  in 
stinct  was  not  to  let  reserves  break  down,  not  to 
show  agitation;  to  protect  herself  by  never  leav 
ing  commonplace  ground.  It  was  terribly  hard 
— this  driving  back  the  flood-tide  of  feeling  and 
giving  no  sign  of  the  struggle,  the  resentment.  It 
was  as  if  every  nerve  had  been  charged  to  full  life 
and  then  left  there  outraged. 

But  she  could  do  it ;  she  could  appear  pleasantly 
surprised  at  Mildred's  having  come  to  take  her 
for  a  drive,  could  talk  along  about  the  little  things 
that  must  be  her  shield  against  the  big  ones. 
Something  in  her  had  gone  hard  in  that  first  mo 
ment  of  realizing  who  Mildred  was.  She  was  not 
going  to  be  driven  back  again !  And  so  she  forced 
herself  to  talk  pleasantly  of  the  country  through 
which  they  went,  of  Mildred's  horse,  of  driving 
and  riding. 

But  it  was  impossible  not  to  grow  a  little  inter 
ested  in  this  young  Mildred  Woodbury.  She  sat 

280 


FIDELITY  281 

erect  and  drove  in  a  manner  that  had  the  little 
tricks  of  worldliness,  but  was  somehow  charming 
in  spite  of  its  artificiality.  Euth  was  thinking  that 
Mildred  was  a  more  sophisticated  young  person 
than  she  herself  had  been  at  that  age.  She  won 
dered  if  sophistication  was  increasing  in  the  world, 
if  there  was  more  of  it  in  Freeport  than  there  used 
to  be. 

They  talked  of  Kuth's  father,  of  Mildred's 
people,  of  the  neighborhood  both  knew  so  well. 
From  that  it  drifted  to  the  social  life  of  the  town. 
She  was  amused,  rather  sadly  amused,  at  Mil 
dred's  air  of  superiority  about  it;  it  seemed  so 
youthful,  so  facile.  Listening  to  Mildred  now 
pictures  flashed  before  her:  she  and  Edith  Law 
rence — girls  of  about  fifteen — going  over  to  the 
Woodburys'  and  eagerly  asking,  "Could  we  take 
the  baby  out,  Mrs.  Woodbury?"  "Now  you'll  be 
very,  very  careful,  girls  ? ' '  Mrs.  Woodbury  would 
say,  wrapping  Mildred  all  up  in  soft  pink  things. 
"Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Woodbury,"  they  would  reply,  a 
little  shocked  that  she  could  entertain  the  thought 
of  their  not  being  careful.  And  then  they  would 
start  off  cooing  girlish  things  about  the  cunning 
little  darling.  This  was  that  baby — in  spite  of  her 
determination  to  hold  aloof  from  Mildred  there 
was  no  banishing  it;  no  banishing  the  apprehen 
sion  that  grew  with  the  girl's  talk.  For  Mildred 
seemed  so  much  a  part  of  the  very  thing  for  which 
she  had  this  easy  scorn.  Something  in  the  way  she 


282  FIDELITY 

held  the  lines  made  it  seem  she  would  not  belong 
anywhere  else.  She  looked  so  carefully  prepared 
for  the  very  life  for  which  she  expressed  disdain. 

She  tried  to  forget  the  things  that  were  coming 
back  to  her — how  Mildred  would  gleefully  hold  up 
her  hands  to  have  her  mittens  put  on  when  she  and 
Edith  were  about  to  take  her  out,  and  tried  too  to 
turn  the  conversation — breaking  out  with  some 
thing  about  Mrs.  Herman's  children.  But  it  be 
came  apparent  that  Mildred  was  not  to  be  put  off. 
Everything  Euth  would  call  up  to  hold  her  off  she 
somehow  forced  around  to  an  approach  for  what 
she  wanted  to  say. 

And  then  it  came  abruptly,  as  if  she  were  tired 
of  trying  to  lead  up  to  it.  "I've  been  wanting  to 
see  you — Euth, ' '  she  hesitated  over  the  name,  but 
brought  it  out  bravely,  and  it  occurred  to  Euth 
then  that  Mildred  had  not  known  how  to  address 
her.  "When  I  heard  you  were  here,"  she  added, 
"I  was  determined  you  shouldn't  get  away  with 
out  my  seeing  you. ' ' 

Euth  looked  at  her  with  a  little  smile,  moved,  in 
spite  of  herself,  by  the  impetuousness  of  the  girl's 
tone,  by  something  real  that  broke  through  the 
worldly  little  manner. 

"I  don't  feel  as  the  rest  of  them  do."  She 
flushed  and  said  it  hurriedly,  a  little  tremulously ; 
and  yet  there  was  something  direct  and  honest  in 
her  eyes,  as  if  she  were  going  to  say  it  whether  it 
seemed  nice  taste  or  not.  It  reached  Euth,  went 


FIDELITY  283 

through  her  self-protective  determination  not  to 
be  reached.  Her  heart  went  out  to  Mildred's 
youth,  to  this  appeal  from  youth,  moved  by  the 
freshness  and  realness  beneath  that  surface 
artificiality,  saddened  by  this  defiance  of  one  who, 
it  seemed,  could  so  little  understand  how  big  was 
the  thing  she  defied,  who  seemed  so  much  the 
product  of  the  thing  she  scorned,  so  dependent  on 
what  she  was  apparently  in  the  mood  to  flout.  '  'I 
don't  know  that  they  are  to  be  blamed  for  their 
feeling,  Mildred,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"Oh,  yes,  they  are!"  hotly  contended  the  girl. 
"It's  because  they  don't  understand.  It's  be 
cause  they  can't  understand!"  The  reins  had 
fallen  loose  in  her  hand;  the  whip  sagged;  she 
drooped — that  stiff,  chic  little  manner  gone.  She 
turned  a  timid,  trusting  face  to  Ruth — a  light  shin 
ing  through  troubled  eyes.  "It's  love  that  counts, 
isn't  it ,— Ruth?"  she  asked,  half  humble,  half  de 
fiant. 

It  swept  Ruth's  heart  of  everything  but  sympa 
thy.  Her  hand  closed  over  Mildred's.  "What  is 
it,  dear ! ' '  she  asked.  l '  Just  what  is  it  1 " 

Mildred's  eyes  filled.  Ruth  could  understand 
that  so  well — what  sympathy  meant  to  a  feeling 
shut  in,  a  feeling  the  whole  world  seemed  against. 
"It's  with  me — as  it  was  with  you,"  the  girl  an 
swered  very  low  and  simply.  "It's — like  that." 

Ruth  shut  her  eyes  for  an  instant;  they  were 
passing  something  fragrant;  it  came  to  her — an 


284  FIDELITY 

old  fragrance — like  something  out  of  things  past ; 
a  robin  was  singing;  she  opened  her  eyes  and 
looked  at  Mildred,  saw  the  sunshine  finding  gold 
in  the  girl's  hair.  The  sadness  of  it — of  youth  and 
suffering,  of  pain  in  a  world  of  beauty,  that  reach 
of  pain  into  youth,  into  love,  made  it  hard  to  speak. 
"I'm  sorry,  dear,"  was  all  she  could  say. 

They  rode  a  little  way  in  silence ;  Euth  did  not 
know  how  to  speak,  what  to  say ;  and  then  Mildred 
began  to  talk,  finding  relief  in  saying  things  long 
held  in.  Euth  understood  that  so  well.  Oh,  she 
understood  it  all  so  well — the  whole  tumult  of  it, 
the  confused  thinking,  the  joy,  the  passion, — the 
passion  that  would  sacrifice  anything,  that  would 
let  the  whole  world  go.  Here  it  was  again.  She 
knew  just  what  it  was. 

"So  you  can  see,"  Mildred  was  saying,  "what 
you  have  meant  to  me." 

Yes,  she  could  see  that. 

They  were  driving  along  the  crest  of  the  hills 
back  of  the  town.  Mildred  pointed  to  it.  "That 
town  isn't  the  whole  of  the  world!"  she  exclaimed 
passionately,  after  speaking  of  the  feeling  that 
was  beginning  to  form  there  against  herself. 
"What  do  I  care?"  she  demanded  defiantly. 
"It's  not  the  whole  of  the  world!" 

Euth  looked  at  it.  She  could  see  the  Lawrence 
house — it  had  a  high  place  and  was  visible  from 
all  around;  Mildred's  home  was  not  far  from 
there ;  her  own  old  home  was  only  a  block  farther 


FIDELITY  285 

on.  She  had  another  one  of  those  flashing  pic 
tures  from  things  far  back :  Mrs.  Woodbury — Mil 
dred  's  mother — standing  at  the  door  with  a  bowl 
of  chicken  broth  for  Mrs.  Holland — Ruth's  mother 
— who  was  ill.  l '  I  thought  maybe  this  would  taste 
good,"  she  could  hear  Mrs.  Woodbury  saying. 
Strange  how  things  one  had  forgotten  came  back. 
Other  things  came  back  as  for  a  moment  she  con 
tinued  to  look  at  the  town  where  both  she  and  Mil 
dred  had  been  brought  up,  where  their  ties  were. 
Then  she  turned  back  to  Mildred,  to  this  other 
girl  who,  claimed  by  passionate  love,  was  in  the 
mood  to  let  it  all  go.  "But  that's  just  what  it  is, 
Mildred,"  she  said.  "The  trouble  is,  it  is  the 
whole  of  the  world. ' ' 

"It's  the  whole  of  the  social  world,"  she  an 
swered  the  look  of  surprise.  ."It's  just  the  same 
everywhere.  And  it's  astonishing  how  united 
the  world  is.  You  give  it  up  in  one  place — you've 
about  given  it  up  for  every  place. ' ' 

"Then  the  whole  social  world's  not  worth  it!" 
broke  from  Mildred.  "It's  not  worth — enough." 

Ruth  found  it  hard  to  speak ;  she  did  not  know 
what  to  say.  She  had  a  flashing  sense  of  the  hap- 
hazardness  of  life,  of  the  power,  the  flame  this 
found  in  Mildred  that  the  usual  experiences  would 
never  have  found,  of  how,  without  it,  she  would 
doubtless  have  developed  much  like  the  other  girls 
of  her  world — how  she  might  develop  because  of 
it — how  human  beings  were  shaped  by  chance- 


286  FIDELITY 

She  looked  at  Mildred's  face — troubled,  passion 
ate,  a  confused  defiance,  and  yet  something  real 
there  looking  through  the  tumult,  something  flam 
ing,  something  that  would  fight,  a  something,  she 
secretly  knew,  more  flaming,  more  fighting,  than 
might  ever  break  to  life  in  Mildred  again.  And 
then  she  happened  to  look  down  at  the  girl's  feet 
— the  very  smart  low  shoes  of  dull  kid,  perfectly 
fitted,  high  arched — the  silk  stockings,  the  slender 
ankle.  They  seemed  so  definitely  feet  for  the 
places  prepared,  for  the  easier  ways,  not  fitted  for 
going  a  hard  way  alone.  It  made  her  feel  like 
a  mother  who  would  want  to  keep  a  child  from  a 
way  she  herself  knew  as  too  hard. 

'  '  But  what  are  you  going  to  put  in  the  place  of 
that  social  world,  Mildred?'7  she  gently  asked. 
'  '  There  must  be  something  to  fill  its  place.  What 
is  that  going  to  be  ? ' ' 

* ' Love  will  fill  its  place!"  came  youth's  proud, 
sure  answer. 

Euth  was  looking  straight  ahead;  the  girl's  tone 
had  thrilled  her — that  faith  in  love,  that  courage 
for  it.  It  was  so  youthful! — so  youthfully  sure, 
so  triumphant  in  blindness.  Youth  would  dare  so 
much — youth  knew  so  little.  She  did  not  say  any 
thing  ;  she  could  not  bear  to. 

"Love  can  fill  its  place!"  Mildred  said  again, 
as  if  challenging  that  silence.  And  as  still  Euth 
did  not  speak  she  demanded,  sharply, i  i  Can 't  it ! ' ' 

Euth  turned  to  her  a  tender,  compassionate 


FIDELITY  287 

face,  too  full  of  feeling,  of  conflict,  to  speak. 
Slowly,  as  if  she  could  not  bear  to  do  it,  she  shook 
her  head. 

Mildred  looked  just  dazed  for  a  moment,  then  so 
much  as  if  one  in  whom  she  had  trusted,  on  whom 
she  had  counted  for  a  great  deal  had  failed  her 
that  Kuth  made  a  little  gesture  as  if  to  say  it  was 
not  that,  as  if  to  say  she  was  sorry  it  seemed  like 
that. 

Mildred  did  not  heed  it.  ' '  But  it  has  with  you, ' ' 
she  insisted. 

"It  has  not!"  leaped  out  the  low,  savage  an 
swer  that  startled  the  woman  from  whom  it  came. 
"It  has  not!"  she  repeated  fiercely. 

Her  rage  was  against  the  feeling  that  seemed 
to  trick  one  like  that ;  the  way  love  got  one — made 
one  believe  that  nothing  else  in  the  world  mattered 
but  just  itself.  It  wasn't  fair!  It  was  cruel! 
That  made  her  savage — savage  for  telling  Mil 
dred  the  other  side  of  it,  the  side  love  blinded  her 
to.  In  that  moment  it  seemed  that  love  was  a 
trap ;  it  took  hold  of  one  and  persuaded  one  things 
were  true  that  weren't  true !  Just  then  it  seemed 
a  horrible  thing  the  way  love  got  one  through 
lovely  things,  through  beauty  and  tenderness, 
through  the  sweetest  things — then  did  as  it  pleased 
with  the  life  it  had  stolen  in  upon.  Fiercely  she 
turned  the  other  face,  told  Mildred  what  love  in 
loneliness  meant,  what  it  meant  to  be  shut  away 
from  one's  own  kind,  what  that  hurting  of  other 


288  FIDELITY; 

lives  did  to  one's  self,  what  isolation  made  of  one, 
what  it  did  to  love.  Things  leaped  out  that  she 
had  never  faced,  had  never  admitted  for  true ;  the 
girl  to  whom  she  talked  was  frightened  and  she 
was  frightened  herself — at  what  she  told  of  what 
she  herself  had  felt,  feeling  that  she  had  never  ad 
mitted  she  had  had.  She  let  the  light  in  on  things 
kept  in  the  dark  even  in  her  own  soul — a  cruel 
light,  a  light  that  spared  nothing,  that  seemed  to 
find  a  savage  delight  in  exposing  the  things  deep 
est  concealed.  She  would  show  the  other  side  of 
it!  There  was  a  certain  gloating  in  doing  it — 
getting  ahead  of  a  thing  that  would  trick  one. 
And  then  that  spent  itself  as  passion  will  and  she 
grew  quieter  and  talked  in  a  simple  way  of  what 
loneliness  meant,  of  what  longing  for  home  meant, 
of  what  it  meant  to  know  one  had  hurt  those  who 
had  always  been  good  to  one,  who  loved  and 
trusted.  She  spoke  of  her  mother — of  her  father, 
and  then  she  broke  down  and  cried  and  Mildred 
listened  in  silence  to  those  only  half-smothered 
sobs. 

When  Euth  was  able  to  stop  she  looked  up, 
timidly,  at  Mildred.  Something  seemed  to  have 
gone  out  of  the  girl — something  youthful  and  su 
perior,  something  radiant  and  assured.  She 
looked  crumpled  up.  The  utter  misery  in  her 
eyes,  about  her  mouth,  made  Euth  whisper :  t '  I  'm 
sorry,  Mildred/' 


FIDELITY  289 

Mildred  looked  at  her  with  a  bitter  little  laugh 
and  then  turned  quickly  away. 

Euth  had  never  felt  more  wretched  in  her  life 
than  when,  without  Mildred  having  said  a  word, 
they  turned  in  the  gate  leading  up  to  Annie 's. 
She  wanted  to  say  something  to  comfort.  She 
cast  around  for  something.  "Maybe,"  she  be 
gan,  ' l  that  it  will  come  right — anyway. ' ' 

Again  Mildred  only  laughed  in  that  hard  little 
way. 

When  they  were  half  way  up  the  hill  Mildred 
spoke,  as  if,  in  miserable  uncertainty,  thinking 
things  aloud.  "Mrs.  Blair  has  asked  me  to  go  to 
Europe  with  her  for  the  summer,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  that  seemed  to  have  no  spring  left  in  it. 
'  '  She 's  chaperoning  a  couple  of  girls.  I  could  go 
with  them." 

"Oh,  do,  Mildred!"  cried  Euth.  "Do  that!" 
It  seemed  to  her  wonderfully  tender,  wonderfully 
wise,  of  Edith.  She  was  all  eagerness  to  induce 
Mildred  to  go  with  Edith. 

But  there  was  no  answering  enthusiasm.  Mil 
dred  drooped.  She  did  not  look  at  Euth.  "I 
could  do  that,"  she  said  in  a  lifeless  way,  as  if  it 
didn't  matter  much  what  she  did. 

When  they  said  good-by  Mildred's  broken  smile 
made  Euth  turn  hastily  away.  But  she  looked 
back  after  the  girl  had  driven  off,  wanting  to  see 
if  she  was  sitting  up  in  that  sophisticated  little 


290  FIDELITY. 

way  she  had.  But  Mildred  was  no  longer  sitting 
that  way.  She  sagged,  as  if  she  did  not  care  any 
thing  about  how  she  sat.  Euth  stood  looking  after 
her,  watching  as  far  as  she  could  see  her,  longing 
to  see  her  sit  up,  to  see  her  hold  the  whip  again  in 
that  stiff,  chic  little  fashion.  But  she  did  not  do 
it;  her  horse  was  going  along  as  if  he  knew  there 
was  no  interest  in  him.  Euth  could  not  bear  it. 
If  only  the  whip  would  go  up  at  just  that  right 
little  angle!  But  it  did  not.  She  could  not  see 
the  whip  at  all — only  the  girl's  drooping  back. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 

When  Mildred  had  passed  from  sight  Ruth 
slowly  turned  toward  the  house.  She  noticed  the 
vegetable  wagon  there  in  front  of  the  barn — so 
Annie  had  come  home.  She  turned  away  from 
the  kitchen  door  she  had  been  about  to  enter; 
she  did  not  want  to  talk  to  Annie  just  then.  But 
when  she  had  passed  around  to  the  other  side  of 
the  house  she  saw,  standing  with  their  backs  to 
her  in  the  little  flower  garden,  Annie  and  a  woman 
she  was  astonished  to  recognize  as  her  sister  Har 
riett. 

She  made  a  move  toward  the  little  hill  that  rose 
behind  the  house.  She  would  get  away!  But 
Mr.  Herman  appeared  just  then  at  the  top  of  the 
hill.  He  saw  her;  he  must  see  that  she  had  seen 
the  others.  So  she  would  have  to  stay  and  talk  to 
Harriett.  It  seemed  a  thing  she  absolutely  could 
not  do.  It  had  come  to  seem  she  was  being  made 
some  kind  of  sport  of,  as  if  the  game  were  to 
buffet  her  about  between  this  feeling  and  that,  let 
her  gain  a  little  ground,  get  to  a  clearing,  then 
throw  her  back  to  new  confusion.  That  day,  any 
way,  she  could  bear  no  more  of  it.  It  was  hard 
to  reply  to  Mr.  Herman  when  he  called  something 
to  her.  Annie  heard  their  voices  and  then  she 
had  to  join  her  and  Harriett. 

291 


292  FIDELITY' 

"Why,  Euth!"  Annie  cried  in  quick  solicitude 
upon  seeing  Buth's  face,  "you  went  too  far. 
How  hateful  of  you,"  she  laughed,  as  if  feeling 
there  was  something  to  laugh  off,  "to  come  look 
ing  like  this  just  when  I  have  been  boasting  to 
your  sister  about  how  we've  set  you  up!" 

"You  do  look  tired,  Euth,"  said  Harriett  com 
passionately. 

Harriett  said  she  had  come  for  a  little  visit  with 
Euth,  and  Annie  proposed  that  they  go  up  under 
the  trees  at  the  crest  of  the  hill  back  of  the  house. 
It  was  where  Euth  had  sat  with  Annie  just  the 
day  before.  As  she  sat  down  there  now  it  seemed 
it  was  ages  ago  since  she  and  Annie  had  sat  there 
tying  the  asparagus  into  bunches. 

Annie  had  come  up  with  some  buttermilk  for 
them.  As  she  handed  Euth  hers  she  gave  her 
shoulder  an  affectionate  little  pat,  as  if,  looking 
at  her  face,  she  wranted  to  tell  her  to  take  heart. 
Then  she  went  back  to  the  house,  leaving  the  two 
sisters  alone. 

They  drank  their  buttermilk,  talking  of  it,  of 
Annie's  place,  of  her  children.  In  a  languid  way 
Euth  was  thinking  that  it  was  good  of  Harriett  to 
come  and  see  her;  had  she  come  the  day  before, 
she  would  have  been  much  pleased.  In  that  worn 
way,  she  was  pleased  now;  doubtless  it  had  been 
hard  for  Harriett  to  come — so  busy,  and  not  well. 
Perhaps  her  coming  meant  real  defiance.  Any 
way,  it  was  good  of  her  to  come.  She  tried  to  be 


FIDELITY  293 

nice  to  Harriett,  to  talk  about  things  as  if  she  liked 
having  her  there  to  talk  with.  But  that  final  pic 
ture  of  Mildred's  drooping  back  was  right  there 
before  her  all  the  time.  As  she  talked  with  Har 
riett  about  the  price  of  butter  and  eggs — the  liv 
ing  to  be  had  in  selling  them,  she  was  all  the  while 
seeing  Mildred — Mildred  as  she  had  been  when 
Euth  got  into  the  buggy;  as  she  said,  "Love  can 
take  its  place !" — as  she  was  when  she  drove  away. 
She  had  a  sick  feeling  of  having  failed;  she  had 
failed  the  very  thing  in  Mildred  to  which  she  had 
elected  to  be  faithful  in  herself.  And  why® 
What  right  had  one  to  say  that  another  was  not 
strong  enough?  How  did  one  know?  And  yet 
she  wanted  Mildred  to  go  with  Edith ;  she  believed 
that  she  would — now.  That  blighting  sense  of 
failure,  of  having  been  unfaithful,  could  not  kill  a 
feeling  of  relief.  Did  it  mean  that  she  was,  after 
all,  just  like  Edith?  Had  her  venturing,  her  ex 
perience,  left  her  much  as  she  would  have  been 
without  it?  Just  before  meeting  Mildred  she  was 
strong  in  the  feeling  of  having  gained  something 
from  the  hard  way  she  had  gone  alone.  She  was 
going  on!  That  was  what  it  had  shown  her — 
that  one  was  to  go  on.  Then  she  had  to  listen  to 
Mildred — and  she  was  back  with  the  very  people 
she  had  felt  she  was  going  on  past — one  with  those 
people  she  had  so  triumphantly  decided  were  not 
worth  her  grieving  for  them. 

She  had  been  so  sure — so  radiantly  sure,  happy 


294  FIDELITY, 

in  that  sense  of  having,  at  last,  found  herself,  of 
being  rid  of  fears  and  griefs  and  incertitudes. 
Then  she  met  Mildred.  It  came  to  her  then — 
right  while  she  was  talking  with  Harriett  about 
what  Flora  Copeland  was  going  to  do  now  that 
the  house  would  be  broken  up — that  it  was  just 
that  thing  which  kept  the  world  conservative.  It 
was  fear  for  others.  It  was  that  feeling  she  had 
when  she  looked  down  at  Mildred's  feet. 

One  did  not  have  that  feeling  when  one  looked 
at  one's  own  feet.  Fear  of  pain  for  others  was 
quite  unlike  fear  for  one's  self.  Courage  for 
one 's  self  one  could  gain ;  in  the  fires  of  the  heart 
that  courage  was  forged.  When  the  heart  was 
warm  with  the  thing  one  wanted  to  do  one  said  no 
price  in  pain  could  be  too  great.  But  courage  for 
others  had  to  be  called  from  the  mind.  It  was  an 
other  thing.  When  it  was  some  one  else, — one 
younger,  one  who  did  not  seem  strong — then  one 
distrusted  the  feeling  and  saw  large  the  pain. 
One  knew  one  could  bear  pain  one's  self.  There 
was  something  not  to  be  borne  in  thinking  of  an 
other's  pain.  That  was  why,  even  among  ven 
turers,  few  had  the  courage  to  speak  for  ventur 
ing.  There  was  something  in  humankind — it  was 
strongest  in  womankind — made  them,  no  matter 
how  daring  for  themselves,  cautious  for  others. 
And  perhaps  that,  all  crusted  round  with  things 
formal  and  lifeless,  was  the  living  thing  at  the 
Jieart  of  the  world's  conservatism, 


FIDELITY  295 

Harriett  was  talking  of  the  monument  Cyras 
thought  there  should  be  at  the  cemetery;  Euth 
listened  and  replied — seemed  only  tired,  and  all 
the  while  these  thoughts  were  shaping  themselves 
in  her  inner  confusion  and  disheartenment.  She 
would  rather  have  stopped  thinking  of  it,  but 
could  not.  She  had  been  too  alive  when  checked ; 
there  was  too  much  emotion  in  that  inner  con 
fusion.  She  wondered  if  she  would  ever  become 
sure  of  anything;  if  she  would  ever  have,  and 
keep,  that  courage  of  confidence  which  she  had 
thought,  for  just  a  few  radiant  moments,  she  had. 
She  would  like  to  talk  to  Annie  about  it,  but  she 
had  a  feeling  that  she  was  not  fit  to  talk  to  Annie. 
Annie  was  not  one  of  those  to  run  back  at  the 
first  thought  of  ano ther's  pain.  That,  too,  Annie 
could  face.  Better  let  them  in  for  pain  than  try 
to  keep  them  from  life,  Annie  would  say.  She 
could  hear  her  saying  it — saying  that  even  that 
concern  for  others  was  not  the  noblest  thing. 
Fearing  would  never  set  the  world  free,  would 
be  Annie's  word.  Not  to  keep  people  in  the  safe 
little  places,  but  to  shape  a  world  where  there 
need  not  be  safe  little  places !  While  she  listened 
to  what  Harriett  said  of  how  much  such  a  monu 
ment  as  Cyrus  wanted  would  cost,  she  could  hear 
Annie's  sharp-edged  little  voice  making  those  re 
plies  to  her  own  confusion,  could  hear  her  talking 
of  a  sterner,  braver  people — hardier  souls — who 
would  one  day  make  a  world  where  fear  was  not 


296  FIDELITY 

the  part  of  kindness.  Annie  would  say  that  it  was 
not  the  women  who  would  protect  other  women 
who  would  shape  the  future  in  which  there  need 
not  be  that  tight  little  protection. 

She  sighed  heavily  and  pushed  back  her  hair 
with  a  gesture  of  great  weariness.  '  '  Poor  Euth ! ' ' 
it  made  Harriett  murmur,  "you  haven 't  really  got 
rested  at  all,  have  you  ? ' ' 

She  pulled  herself  up  and  smiled  as  best  she 
could  at  her  sister,  who  had  spoken  to  her  with 
real  feeling.  "I  did/'  she  said  with  a  little 
grimace  that  carried  Harriett  back  a  long  way, 
"then  I  got  so  rested  I  got  to  thinking  about 
things — then  I  got  tired  again."  She  flushed 
after  she  had  said  it,  for  that  was  the  closest  they 
had  come  to  the  things  they  kept  away  from. 

"Poor  Euth,"  Harriett  murmured  again. 
"And  I'm  afraid,"  she  added  with  a  little  laugh, 
"that  now  I'm  going  to  make  you  more  tired." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Euth,  though  she  looked  at  her 
inquiringly. 

"Because,"  said  Harriett,  "IVe  come  to  talk 
to  you  about  something,  Euth." 

Euth's  face  made  her  say,  "I'm  sorry,  Euth, 
but  I'm  afraid  it's  the  only  chance.  You  see 
you're  going  away  day  after  tomorrow." 

Euth  only  nodded;  it  seemed  if  she  spoke  she 
would  have  to  cry  out  what  she  felt — that  in  com 
mon  decency  she  ought  to  be  let  alone  now  as  any 
worn-out  thing  should  be  let  alone,  that  it  was  not 


FIDELITY  297 

fair — humane — to  talk  to  her  now.  But  of  course 
she  could  not  make  that  clear  to  Harriett,  and  with 
it  all  she  did  wonder  what  it  was  Harriett  had  to 
say.  So  she  only  looked  at  her  sister  as  if  wait 
ing.  Harriett  looked  away  from  her  for  an  in 
stant  before  she  began  to  speak:  Euth's  eyes 
were  so  tired,  so  somber;  there  was  something 
very  appealing  about  her  face  as  she  waited  for 
the  new  thing  that  was  to  be  said  to  her. 

"I  have  felt  terribly,  Ruth,"  Harriett  finally 
began,  as  if  forcing  herself  to  do  so,  "  about  the 
position  in  which  we  are  as  a  family.  I'll  not  go 
into  what  brought  it  about — or  anything  like  that. 
I  haven't  come  to  talk  about  things  that  happened 
long  ago,  haven't  come  with  reproaches.  I've 
just  come  to  see  if,  as  a  family,  we  can't  do  a  little 
better  about  things  as  they  are  now." 

She  paused,  but  Euth  did  not  speak;  she  was 
very  still  now  as  she  waited.  She  did  not  take  her 
eyes  from  Harriett's  face. 

"Mother  and  father  are  gone,  Euth,"  Harriett 
went  on  in  a  low  voice,  '  '  and  only  we  children  are 
left.  It  seems  as  if  we  ought  to  do  the  best  we  can 
for  each  other."  Her  voice  quivered  and  Euth's 
intense  eyes,  which  did  not  leave  her  sister's  face, 
dimmed.  She  continued  to  sit  there  very  still, 
waiting. 

"I  had  a  feeling,"  Harriett  went  on,  "that 
father's  doing  what  he  did  was  as  a — was  as  a 
sign,  Euth,  that  we  children  should  come  closer  to- 


298  FIDELITY 

gether.  As  if  father  couldn't  see  his  way  to  do  it 
in  his  lifetime,  but  did  this  to  leave  word  to  us 
that  we  were  to  do  something.  I  took  it  that 
way, ' '  she  finished  simply. 

Euth's  eyes  had  brimmed  over;  but  still  she  did 
not  move,  did  not  take  her  eyes  from  her  sister 's 
face.  She  was  so  strange — as  if  going  out  to  Har 
riett  and  yet  holding  herself  ready  at  any  moment 
to  crouch  back. 

"And  so,"  Harriett  pursued,  all  the  while  in 
that  low  voice,  '  '  that  is  the  way  I  talked  to  Edgar 
and  Cyrus.  I  didn't  bring  Ted  into  it,"  she  said, 
more  in  her  natural  way,  "because  he's  just  a  boy, 
and  then — "  she  paused  as  if  she  had  got  into 
something  that  embarrassed  her — "well,  he  and 
Cyrus  not  feeling  kindly  toward  each  other  just 
now  I  thought  I  could  do  better  without  Ted. ' ' 

Euth  flushed  slightly  at  the  mention  of  the  feel 
ing  between  her  brothers;  but  still  she  did  not 
speak,  scarcely  moved. 

Harriett  was  silent  a  moment.  "That's  one  of 
the  reasons,"  she  took  it  up,  "why  I  am  anxious 
to  do  something  to  bring  us  together.  I  don't 
want  Ted  to  be  feeling  this  way  toward  Cyrus. 
And  Edgar,  too,  he  seems  to  be  very  bitter  against. 
It  makes  him  defiant.  It  isn't  good  for  him.  I 
think  Ted  has  a  little  disposition  to  be  wild,"  she 
said  in  a  confidential  tone. 

Euth  spoke  then.  "I  hadn't  noticed  any  such 
disposition,"  she  said  simply. 


FIDELITY  299 

"Well,  lie  doesn't  go  to  church.  It  seems  to  me 
he  doesn't — accept  things  as  he  ought  to." 

Euth  said  nothing  to  that,  only  continued  to  look 
at  her  sister,  waiting. 

"  So  I  talked  to  them, ' '  Harriett  went  on.  '  <  Of 
course,  Euth,  there's  no  use  pretending  it  was 
easy.  You  know  how  Cyrus  feels;  he  isn't  one  to 
change  much,  you  know."  She  turned  away  and 
her  hand  fumbled  in  a  little  patch  of  clover. 

"But  we  do  want  to  do  something,  Euth,"  she 
came  back  to  it.  "We  all  feel  it's  terrible  this 
way.  So  this  is  what  Edgar  proposed,  and  Cyrus 
agreed  to  it,  and  it  seems  to  me  the  best  thing  to 
do."  She  stopped  again,  then  said,  in  a  blurred 
sort  of  voice,  fumbling  with  the  clover  and  not 
looking  at  Euth :  "If  you  will  leave  the — your — 
if  you  will  leave  the  man  you  are — living  with, 
promising  never  to  see  him  again, — if  you  will 
give  that  up  and  come  home  we  will  do  everything 
we  can  to  stand  by  you,  go  on  as  best  we  can  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  We  will  try  to — " 

She  looked  up — and  did  not  go  on,  but  flushed 
uncomfortably  at  sight  of  Euth's  face — eyes  wide 
with  incredulity,  with  something  like  horror. 

"You  don't  mean  that,  do  you,  Harriett!"  Euth 
asked  in  a  queer,  quiet  voice. 

"But  we  wanted  to  do  something — "  Harriett 
began,  and  then  again  halted,  halted  before  the 
sudden  blaze  of  anger  in  Euth's  eyes. 

"And  you  thought  this — "    She  broke  off  with 


300  FIDELITY 

a  short  laugh  and  sat  there  a  moment  trying  to 
gain  control  of  herself.  When  she  spoke  her  voice 
was  controlled  but  full  of  passion.  "I  don't 
think,"  she  said,  "that  I've  ever  known  of  a  more 
monstrous — a  more  insulting  proposal  being  made 
by  one  woman  to  another ! ' ' 

" Insulting?"  faltered  Harriett. 

Euth  did  not  at  once  reply  but  sat  there  so 
strangely  regarding  her  sister.  "So  this  is  your 
idea  of  life,  is  it,  Harriett? "  she  began  in  the  man 
ner  of  one  making  a  big  effort  to  speak  quietly. 
"This  is  your  idea  of  marriage,  is  it?  Here  is 
the  man  I  have  lived  with  for  eleven  years.  For 
eleven  years  weVe  met  hard  things  together  as 
best  we  could — worked,  borne  things  together. 
Let  me  tell  you  something,  Harriett.  If  that 
doesn't  marry  people — tell  me  something.  If  that 
doesn't  marry  people — just  tell  me,  Harriett, 
ivhat  does?" 

"But  you  know  you're  not  married,  Euth," 
Harriett  replied,  falteringly — for  Euth's  burning 
eyes  never  left  her  sister's  face.  "You  know — 
really — you're  not  married.  You  know  he's  not 
divorced,  Euth.  He's  not  your  husband.  He's 
Marion  Averley's." 

' '  You  think  so ?' '  Euth  flung  back  at  her.  ' '  You 
really  think  so,  do  you,  Harriett?  After  those 
years  together — brought  together  by  love,  united 
by  living,  by  effort,  by  patience,  by  courage — I 


FIDELITY  301 

ask  you  again,  Harriett,— if  the  things  there  have 
been  between  Stuart  Williams  and  me  can't  make 
a  marriage  real — what  can?" 

"The  law  is  the  law,"  murmured  Harriett. 
' '  He  is  married  to  her.  He  never  was  married  to 
you. ' ' 

Euth  began  hotly  to  speak,  but  checked  it  with 
a  laugh  and  sat  there  regarding  her  sister  in  si 
lence.  When  she  spoke  after  that  her  voice  was 
singularly  calm.  "I'm  glad  to  know  this,  Har 
riett;  glad  to  know  just  what  your  ideas  are — 
yours  and  Edgar's  and  Cyrus's.  You  have  done 
something  for  me,  after  all.  For  I've  grieved  a 
great  deal,  Harriett,  for  the  things  I  lost,  and  you 
see  I  won't  do  that  any  more.  I  see  now — see 
what  those  things  are.  I  see  that  I  don't  want 
them." 

Harriett  had  colored  at  that,  and  her  hand  was 
fumbling  in  the  little  patch  of  clover.  When  she 
looked  up  at  Euth  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 
"But  what  could  we  do,  Euth!"  she  asked,  gently, 
a  little  reproachfully.  "We  wanted  to  do  some 
thing — what  else  could  we  do  1 " 

Her  tone  touched  Euth.  After  all,  what  else — 
Harriett  being  as  she  was — could  she  do?  Mon 
strous  as  the  proposal  seemed  to  her,  it  was  Har 
riett's  wa*y  of  trying  to  make  things  better.  She 
had  come  in  kindness,  and  she  had  not  been  kindly 
received.  It  was  in  a  different  voice  that  Euth 


302  FIDELITY 

began:  " Harriett,  don't  you  see,  when  you  come 
to  look  at  it,  that  I  couldn't  do  this?  Down  in 
your  heart — way  down  in  your  heart,  Harriett — 
don't  you  see  that  I  couldn't?  Don't  you  see  that 
if  I  left  Stuart  now  to  do  the  best  he  could  by  him 
self,  left  him,  I  mean,  for  this  reason — came  creep 
ing  back  myself  into  a  little  corner  of  respect 
ability — the  crumbs  that  fall  from  the  tables  of  re 
spectability — !  You  'knoWj  Harriett  Holland," 
she  flamed,  "that  if  I  did  that  I'd  be  less  a  woman, 
not  a  better  one!" 

"I — I  knew  it  would  be  hard,"  granted  Har 
riett,  unhappily.  "Of  course — after  such  a  long 
time  together —  But  you're  not  married  to  him, 
Euth,"  she  said  again,  wretchedly.  "Why" — her 
voice  fell  almost  to  a  whisper — "you're  living  in 
— adultery. ' ' 

"Well  if  I  am,"  retorted  Euth— "forgive  me 
for  saying  it,  Harriett — that  adultery  has  given 
me  more  decent  ideas  of  life  than  marriage  seems 
to  have  given  you ! ' ' 

Her  feeling  about  it  grew  stronger  as  the  day 
wore  on.  That  evening  she  got  the  Woodburys' 
on  the  telephone  and  asked  for  Mildred.  She  did 
not  know  just  what  she  would  say,  she  had  no  plan, 
but  she  wanted  to  see  Mildred  again.  She  was 
told,  however,  that  Mildred  had  gone  to  Chicago 
on  a  late  afternoon  train.  At  the  last  minute  she 
had  decided  to  go  to  Europe  with  Mrs.  Blair,  the 


FIDELITY  303 

servant  who  was  speaking  said,  and  had  gone  over 
to  Chicago  to  see  about  clothes. 

Euth  hung  up  the  receiver  and  sat  looking  into 
the  telephone.  Then  she  laughed.  So  Mildred 
had  been  ' l  saved. ' ' 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN 

On  the  afternoon  of  her  last  day  in  Freeport 
Ruth  took  a  long  tramp  with  Deane.  She  was  go 
ing  that  night ;  she  was  all  ready  for  leaving  when 
Deane  came  out  and  asked  if  he  couldn't  take  her 
for  a  ride  in  his  car.  She  suggested  a  walk  in 
stead,  wanting  the  tramp  before  the  confinement 
of  travelling.  So  they  cut  through  the  fields  back 
of  Annie 's  and  came  out  on  a  road  well  known  to 
them  of  old.  They  tramped  along  it  a  long  way, 
Ruth  speaking  of  things  she  remembered,  talk 
ing  of  old  drives  along  that  road  which  had  been 
a  favorite  with  all  of  their  old  crowd.  They  said 
things  as  they  felt  like  it,  but  there  was  no  con 
straint  in  their  silences.  It  had  always  been  like 
that  with  her  and  Deane.  Finally  they  sat  down 
on  a  knoll  a  little  back  from  the  road,  overlooking 
pastures  and  fields  of  blowing  green. 

"I  love  these  little  hills,"  Ruth  murmured;  "so 
many  little  hills,"  she  laughed  affectionately — 
"and  so  green  and  blowy  and  fruitful.  With  us 
it's  a  great  flat  valley — a  plain,  and  most  of  it  dry 
— barren.  You  have  to  do  such  a  lot  to  make 
things  grow.  Here  things  just  love  to  grow. 
And  trees!"  she  laughed. 

"But  mountains  there,"  suggested  Deane. 

304 


FIDELITY  305 

"Yes,  but  a  long  way  off  from  us,  and  some 
times  they  seem  very  stern,  Deane.  I've  so  many 
times  had  the  feeling  I  couldn't  get  beyond  them. 
Sometimes  they  have  seemed  like  other  things  I 
couldn't  hope  to  cross."  After  a  little  she  said: 
"These  little  hills  are  so  gentle;  this  country  so 
open. ' ' 

Deane  laughed  shortly.  "Yes,  the  hills  are 
gentle.  The  country  is  open  enough ! ' ' 

She  laughed  too.  "It  is  beautiful  country, 
Deane,"  she  said,  as  if  that  were  the  thing  matter 
ing  just  then.  There  was  an  attractive  bit  of 
pasture  just  ahead  of  them :  a  brook  ran  through 
it — a  lovely  little  valley  between  two  of  those 
gentle  hills. 

Deane  was  lying  on  the  grass  a  little  way  from 
her — sprawled  out  in  much  his  old  awkward  way, 
his  elbow  supporting  his  head,  hat  pulled  down 
over  his  eyes.  It  was  good  to  be  with  him  this 
last  afternoon.  It  seemed  so  much  as  it  used  to 
be ;  in  that  moment  it  was  almost  as  if  the  time  in 
between  had  not  been.  It  was  strange  the  way 
things  could  fall  away  sometimes — great  stretches 
of  time  fall  away  and  seem,  for  a  little  while,  to 
leave  things  as  they  had  been  long  before. 

"Well,  Buth,"  Deane  said  at  last,  "so  you're 
going  back. ' ' 

"Going  back,  Deane,"  she  answered. 

So  much  they  did  not  say  seemed  to  flow  into 
that ;  the  whole  thing  was  right  there,  opened,  liv- 


306  FIDELITY 

ing,  between  them.  It  had  always  been  like  that 
with  her  and  Deane.  It  was  not  necessary  to  say 
things  out  to  him,  as  it  was  with  everyone  else. 
Their  thinking,  feeling,  seemed  to  come  together 
naturally,  of  itself;  not  a  matter  of  direction. 
She  looked  at  Deane  stretched  out  there  on  the 
grass — older,  different  in  some  ways — today  he 
looked  as  if  something  was  worrying  him — yet 
with  it  all  so  much  the  Deane  of  old.  It  kept  re 
curring  as  strange  that,  after  all  there  had  been  in 
between,  they  should  be  together  again,  and  that 
it  could  be  as  it  used  to  be.  Just  as  of  old,  a  little 
thing  said  could  swing  them  to  thinking,  feeling, 
of  which  perhaps  they  did  not  speak,  but  which 
they  consciously  shared.  Many  times  through  the 
years  there  had  come  times  when  she  wanted  noth 
ing  so  much  as  to  be  with  Deane,  wanted  to  say 
things  to  him  that,  she  did  not  know  just  why, 
there  would  have  been  no  satisfaction  in  saying 
to  Stuart.  Even  things  she  had  experienced  with 
Stuart  she  could,  of  the  two,  more  easily  have 
talked  of  with  Deane.  It  was  to  Deane  she  could 
have  talked  of  the  things  Stuart  made  her  feel. 
Within  a  certain  circle  Stuart  was  the  man  to 
whom  she  came  closest;  somehow,  with  him,  she 
did  not  break  from  that  circle.  She  had  always 
had  that  feeling  of  Deane 's  understanding  what 
she  felt,  even  though  it  was  not  he  who  inspired 
the  feeling.  That  seemed  a  little  absurd  to  her — 
to  live  through  things  with  one  man,  and  have 


FIDELITY  307 

what  that  living  made  of  her  seem  to  swing  her  to 
some  one  else. 

Thinking  of  their  unique  companionship,  which 
time  and  distance  and  circumstances  had  so  little 
affected,  she  looked  at  Deane  as  he  lay  there  near 
her  on  the  grass.  She  was  glad  to  have  this  re 
newal  of  their  old  friendship,  which  had  always 
remained  living  and  dear  to  her.  And  now  she 
was  going  away  for  another  long  time.  It  was 
possible  she  would  never  see  him  again.  It  made 
her  wish  she  could  come  closer  to  what  were  now 
the  big  things  in  his  life. 

"Pm  so  glad,  Deane,"  she  said,  somewhat  tim 
idly,  * '  about  you. ' ' 

He  pushed  back  his  hat  and  looked  up  in  in 
quiry. 

"So  glad  you  got  married,  goose!"  she  laughed. 

At  his  laugh  for  that  she  looked  at  him  in  as 
tonishment,  distinctly  shocked.  He  was  chewing 
a  long  spear  of  grass.  For  a  moment  he  did  not 
speak.  Then,  " Amy's  gone  home,"  he  said 
shortly. 

Euth  could  only  stare  at  him,  bewildered. 

He  was  running  his  hand  over  the  grass  near 
him.  She  noticed  that  it  moved  nervously.  And 
she  remarked  the  puckered  brows  that  had  all 
along  made  her  think  he  was  worried  about  some 
thing  that  day — she  had  thought  it  must  be  one  of 
his  cases.  And  there  was  that  compression  of  the 
lips  that  she  knew  of  old  in  Deane  when  he  was 


308  FIDELITY 

hurt.  Just  then  his  face  looked  actually  old,  the 
face  of  a  man  who  has  taken  hard  things. 

"Yes,  Amy's  gone  home  for  a  little  while,"  he 
said  in  a  more  matter  of  fact  voice,  but  a  voice 
that  had  a  hard  ring.  He  added :  *  'Her  mother's 
not  well,"  and  looked  up  at  Euth  with  that  char 
acteristic  little  screwing  up  of  his  face,  as  if  tell 
ing  her  to  make  what  she  could  of  it. 

"Why,  that's  too  bad,"  she  stammered. 

Again  he  looked  up  at  her  in  that  queer  way  of 
mixed  feeling,  his  face  showing  the  marks  of  pain 
and  yet  a  touch  of  teasing  there  too,  mocking  her 
confusion,  looking  like  a  man  who  was  suffering 
and  yet  a  little  like  a  teasing  boy.  Then  he  ab 
ruptly  pulled  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes  again,  as 
if  to  shade  them  from  the  sun,  and  lay  flat  on  his 
back,  one  heel  kicking  at  the  grass.  She  could 
not  see  his  eyes,  but  she  saw  his  mouth ;  that  faint 
touch  of  pleasure  in  teasing  which  had  perversely 
lurked  in  pain  had  gone  now;  that  twist  of  his 
compressed  lips  was  pure  pain. 

She  was  utterly  bewildered,  and  so  deeply  con 
cerned  that  she  had  to  get  ahead  of  Deane  some 
way,  not  let  him  shut  himself  in  with  a  thing  that 
made  his  mouth  look  as  if  he  was  bearing  physical 
pain.  And  then  a  new  thought  shot  into  her  con 
cern  for  him,  a  thought  that  seemed  too  prepos 
terous  to  entertain,  but  that  would  not  go  away. 
It  did  not  seem  a  thing  she  could  speak  of ;  but  as 
she  looked  at  Deane,  his  mouth  more  natural  now, 


FIDELITY  309 

but  the  suggestion  of  pain  left  there,  she  had  a 
sudden  new  sense  of  all  that  Deane  had  done  for 
her.  She  couldn't  leave  things  like  this,  no  mat 
ter  how  indelicate  she  might  seem. 

"Deane,"  she  began  timidly,  "I  don't — in  any 
way — for  any  reason — make  things  hard  for  you, 
do  I?" 

For  the  moment  he  did  not  speak,  did  not  push 
his  hat  back  so  she  could  see  his  eyes.  Then  she 
saw  that  he  was  smiling  a  little ;  she  had  a  feeling 
that  he  was  not  realizing  she  could  see  the  smile ; 
it  was  as  if  smiling  to  himself  at  something  that 
bitterly  amused  him.  It  made  her  feel  rather 
sick;  it  let  that  preposterous  idea  spread  all 
through  her. 

Then  he  sat  up  and  looked  quizzically  at  her. 
"Well,  Ruth,  you  don't  expect  me  to  deny,  do  you, 
that  you  did  make  a  thing  or  two  rather  hard?" 
He  said  it  with  that  touch  of  teasing.  "Was  I  so 
magnanimous,"  he  added  dryly,  "that  I  let  you 
lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  I  wanted  you  1 ' ' 

Euth  colored  and  felt  baffled;  she  was  sure  he 
knew  well  enough  that  was  not  what  she  referred 
to.  He  looked  at  her,  a  little  mockingly,  a  little 
wistfully,  as  if  daring  her  to  go  on. 

"I  wasn't  talking  about  things  long  ago, 
Deane,"  she  said.  "I  wondered — "  She  hesi 
tated,  looking  at  him  in  appeal,  as  if  asking  him  to 
admit  he  understood  what  she  meant  without  forc 
ing  her  to  say  such  a  thing. 


310  FIDELITY 

For  a  minute  lie  let  the  pain  look  out  of  his  eyes 
at  her,  looked  for  all  the  world  as  if  he  wanted  her 
to  help  him.  Then  quickly  he  seemed  to  shut  him 
self  in.  He  smiled  at  her  in  a  way  that  seemed  to 
say,  half  mockingly,  "I've  gone!"  He  hurt  her 
a  little;  it  was  hard  to  be  with  Deane  and  feel 
there  was  something  he  was  not  going  to  let  her 
help  him  with.  And  it  made  her  sick  at  heart ;  for 
surely  he  knew  what  she  was  driving  at,  driving 
at  and  edging  away  from,  and  if  he  could  have 
laughed  at  her  fears  wouldn't  he  have  done  so? 
She  thought  of  all  Deane  had  done  for  her,  borne 
for  her.  It  would  be  bitter  indeed  if  it  were  really 
true  she  was  bringing  him  any  new  trouble.  But 
how  could  it  be  true?  It  seemed  too  preposter 
ous;  surely  she  must  be  entirely  on  the  wrong 
track,  so  utterly  wrong  that  he  had  no  idea  what 
it  was  she  had  in  mind. 

As  they  sat  there  for  a  moment  in  silence  she 
was  full  of  that  feeling  of  how  much  Deane  had 
done  for  her,  of  a  longing  to  do  something  for 
him.  Gently  she  said:  "I  must  have  made 
things  very  hard  for  you,  Deane.  The  town — 
your  friends — your  people,  because  of  me  you 
were  against  them  all.  That  does  make  things 
hard — to  be  apart  from  the  people  you  are  with." 
She  looked  at  him,  her  face  softened  with  affec 
tionate  regret,  with  a  newly  understanding  grati 
tude.  "I've  not  been  very  good  for  your  life, 


FIDELITY  311 

have  I,  Deane?"  she  said,  more  lightly,  but  her 
voice  touched  with  wistfulness. 

He  looked  at  her,  as  if  willing  to  meet  that,  as 
if  frankly  considering  it.  "I  can't  say  that 
you've  been  very  good  for  my  happiness,  Euth," 
he  laughed.  And  then  he  said  simply,  with  a  cer 
tain  simple  manliness,  "But  I  should  say,  Euth, 
you  have  been  very  good  for  my  life."  His  face 
contracted  a  little,  as  if  with  pain.  That  passed, 
and  he  went  on  in  that  simple  way:  "You  see 
you  made  me  think  about  things.  It  was  because 
of  you — through  you — I  came  to  think  about 
things.  That's  good  for  our  lives,  isn't  it?" 
That  he  said  sternly,  as  if  putting  down  something 
that  had  risen  in  him.  ' '  Because  of  you  I  Ve  ques 
tioned  things,  felt  protest.  Why,  Kuth,"  he 
laughed,  "if  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I  might  have 
taken  things  in  the  slick  little  way  they  do," — he 
waved  a  hand  off  toward  the  town.  ' l  So  just  see 
what  I  owe  you ! "  he  said,  more  lightly,  as  if  leav 
ing  the  serious  things  behind.  Then  he  began  to 
speak  of  other  things. 

It  left  Euth  unsatisfied,  troubled.  And  yet  it 
seemed  surely  a  woman  would  be  proud  of  a  man 
who  had  been  as  fine  in  a  thing,  as  big  and  true 
and  understanding,  as  Deane  had  been  with  her. 
Surely  a  woman  would  be  proud  of  a  man  who 
had  so  loyally,  at  such  great  cost,  been  a  woman's 
friend,  who,  because  of  friendship,  because  of 


312  FIDELITY 

fidelity  to  his  own  feeling,  would  stand  out  that 
way  against  others.  She  tried  to  think  that,  for 
she  could  not  go  back  to  what  Deane  had  left  be 
hind.  And  yet  she  could  not  forget  that  she  had 
not  met  Amy. 

They  walked  toward  home  talking  quietly  about 
things  that  happened  to  come  up,  more  as  if  they 
were  intimate  friends  who  had  constant  meetings 
than  as  if  they  had  been  years  apart  and  were 
about  to  part  for  what  would  probably  be  years 
more.  But  that  consciousness  was  there  under 
neath;  it  ruled  the  silences,  made  their  voices 
gentler.  It  was  very  sweet  to  Euth,  just  before 
again  leaving  all  home  things  behind,  to  be  walk 
ing  in  the  spring  twilight  with  Deane  along  that 
road  they  knew  when  they  were  boy  and  girl  to 
gether. 

Twilight  was  deepening  to  evening  when  they 
came  to  the  hill  from  which  they  could  see  the 
town.  They  stood  still  looking  off  at  it,  speaking 
of  the  beauty  of  the  river,  of  the  bridge,  of  the 
strangeness  of  the  town  lights  when  there  was  still 
that  faint  light  of  day.  And  then  they  stood  still 
and  said  nothing,  looking  off  at  that  town  where 
they  had  been  brought  up.  It  was  beautiful  from 
there,  bent  round  a  curve  in  the  broad  river,  built 
upon  hills.  She  was  leaving  it  now — again  leav 
ing  it.  She  had  come  home,  and  now  she  was  go 
ing  away  again.  And  now  she  knew,  in  spite  of 
her  anger  of  the  day  before,  in  spite  of  all  there 


FIDELITY  313 

had  been  to  hurt  her,  in  spite  of  all  that  had  been 
denied  her,  that  she  was  not  leaving  it  in  bitter 
ness.  In  one  sense  she  had  not  had  much  from 
her  days  back  home ;  but  in  a  real  sense,  she  had 
had  much.  She  looked  at  that  town  now  with  a 
feeling  of  new  affection.  She  believed  she  would 
always  have  that  feeling  of  affection  for  it.  It 
stood  to  her  for  things  gone — dear  things  gone; 
for  youth's  gladness,  for  the  love  of  father  and 
mother,  for  many  happy  things  now  left  behind. 
But  now  that  she  had  come  back,  had  gone  through 
those  hard  days,  she  was  curiously  freed  from  that 
town.  She  had  this  new  affection  for  it  in  being 
freed  of  it.  She  would  always  love  it  because  of 
what  it  had  meant  in  the  past,  but  love  it  as  one 
does  love  a  thing  past.  It  seemed  she  had  to 
come  back  to  it  to  let  it  lose  its  hold  on  her.  It 
was  of  the  pastr  and  she  knew  now  that  there  was 
a  future.  What  that  future  was  to  be  she  did  not 
know,  but  she  would  turn  from  this  place  of  the 
past  with  a  new  sense  of  the  importance  of  the 
future.  Standing  there  with  Deane  on  the  hilltop 
at  evening,  looking  off  at  that  town  where  they 
had  both  been  brought  up,  she  got  a  sense  of  the 
significance  of  the  whole  thing — the  eleven  years 
away,  and  the  three  years  preceding  those  years ; 
a  sense  too  of  the  meaning  of  those  days  just  past, 
those  recent  days  at  home  when  there  were  times 
of  being  blinded  by  the  newly  seen  significance  of 
those  years  of  living.  They  had  been  hard  days 


J14  FIDELITY 

because  things  had  been  crowded  so  close ;  it  had 
come  too  fast ;  currents  had  met  too  violently  and 
the  long  way  between  cause  and  effect  had  been 
lighted  by  flashes  too  blinding.  It  had  been  like 
a  great  storm  in  which  elements  rush  together. 
It  had  almost  swept  her  down,  but  she  had  come 
through  it  and  this  was  what  she  had  brought  out 
of  it:  a  sense  of  life  as  precious,  as  worth  any 
thing  one  might  have  to  pay  for  it,  a  stirring  new 
sense  of  the  future  as  adventure.  She  had  been 
thinking  of  her  life  as  denned,  and  now  it  seemed 
that  the  future  was  there,  a  beautiful  untouched 
thing,  a  thing  that  was  left,  hers  to  do  what  she 
could  with.  Somehow  she  had  broken  through, 
broken  through  the  things  that  had  closed  in 
around  her.  A  great  new  thing  had  happened  to 
her :  she  was  no  longer  afraid  to  face  things !  In 
those  last  few  days  she  had  been  tossed,  now  this 
way,  now  that ;  it  seemed  she  had  rather  been  made 
a  fool  of,  but  things  had  got  through  to  her — she 
was  awake,  alive,  unafraid.  Something  had  been 
liberated  in  her.  She  turned  to  Deane,  who  was 
looking  with  a  somber  steadiness  ahead  at  the 
town.  She  touched  his  arm  and  he  looked  at  her, 
amazed  at  her  shining  eyes,  shining  just  as  they 
used  to  when  as  a  girl  she  was  setting  out  for  a 
good  time,  for  some  mischief,  excitement. 

"Well,  anyway,  Deane,"  she  said  in  a  voice 
that  seemed  to  brush  everything  else  aside,  "we're 
alive!" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT 

The  summer  had  gone  by  and  Ted  Holland,  who 
had  gone  West  with  Ruth  in  May,  was  back  in 
Freeport  " breaking  up  the  house."  The  place 
was  offered  for  sale ;  things  had  to  be  cleared  out 
in  one  way  or  another.  Wliat  none  of  the  chil 
dren  wanted  was  being  sold  to  anybody  who  did 
happen  to  want  it;  what  nobody  wanted  was  to 
be  given  away  to  such  people  as  had  to  take  what 
they  could  get.  And  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
it  not  even  in  the  class  for  giving  away;  "just 
truck"  Ted  kept  callously  calling  it  to  Harriett 
and  their  Cousin  Flora.  He  whistled  vigorously 
over  some  of  the  "truck," — a  worn  dog's  collar, 
an  old  pair  of  the  queer  kind  of  house  shoes  his 
mother  wore,  a  spectacle  case  he  had  used  to  love 
to  hear  his  father  snap  shut,  dusty,  leaky  sofa- 
pillows  that  had  bristled  with  newness  in  the 
"den"  which  was  the  delight  of  his  sixteen-year- 
old  heart.  He  kept  saying  to  Cousin  Flora  that 
there  was  no  end  to  the  junk — old  school  readers, 
Ruth's  party  slippers.  Just  burn  it  all  up,  he 
said,  in  a  crisp  voice  of  efficiency;  what  was  it 
good  for,  anyhow!  Certainly  it  had  taught  him 
a  lesson.  He'd  never  keep  anything. 

They  had  been  at  it  for  a  week — sorting,  de- 
sis 


316  FIDELITY 

stroying,  disbursing,  scattering  what  a  family's 
life  through  a  generation  had  assembled,  break 
ing  up  "the  Hollands. "  Ted,  in  his  own  room 
that  morning,  around  him  the  things  he  was  going 
to  put  in  his  trunk  for  taking  back  West,  admitted 
to  himself  that  it  was  gruesome  business. 

Things  were  over ;  things  at  home  were  all  over. 
This  pulling  to  pieces  drove  that  home  hard. 
Father  and  mother  were  gone  and  now  "their 
stuff"  was  being  got  out  of  the  way.  After  this 
there  would  not  even  be  a  place  where  the  things 
they  had  used  were.  But  he  would  be  glad  when 
they  could  get  through  with  it;  he  was  finding 
that  there  was  something  wrenching  about  things 
that  were  left,  things  that  had  been  used  and  that 
now  there  was  no  longer  any  use  for.  The  sight 
of  them  stabbed  as  no  mere  thinking  about  things 
could  do.  It  was  hard  work  throwing  away 
"truck"  that  something  seemed  to  cling  to.  It 
was  hard  to  really  get  it,  he  was  thinking ;  a  fam 
ily  lived  in  a  place — seemed  really  a  part  of  that 
place,  an  important  part,  perhaps;  then  things 
changed — people  died,  moved  away,  and  that  fam 
ily  simply  wasn't  any  more — and  things  went  on 
just  about  the  same.  Whistling,  he  put  some 
shirts  in  his  trunk,  trying  to  fix  his  mind  on  how 
many  new  shirts  he  needed. 

Pie  was  going  back  West — to  live,  to  work.  Not 
right  where  Euth  was,  in  southwestern  Colorado, 
but  in  the  country  a  little  to  the  north.  He  and 


FIDELITY  317 

a  fellow  he  had  made  friends  with  out  there  had 
bought  an  apple  orchard — the  money  he  was  to 
have  from  his  father  would  go  into  it  and  some 
of  Ruth's  money — she  wanted  him  to  invest  some 
of  hers  with  his.  It  was  that  had  made  it  possi 
ble  for  him  to  go  in  with  this  fellow.  He  was 
glad  he  could  do  it.  The  West  had  "got"  him. 
He  believed  he  could  make  things  go. 

And  he  shouldn't  have  liked  staying  on  in  Free- 
port.  Too  many  things  were  different  for  him 
to  want  to  stay  there.  And  too  many  things 
hurt.  Euth  had  come  to  mean  too  much  to  him 
to  let  him  be  happy  with  people  who  felt  as  the 
people  there  did  about  her. 

He  heard  Harriett  downstairs  and  went  down 
to  speak  to  her  about  the  price  the  stove  man 
offered  for  the  kitchen  range.  He  remembered 
his  mother's  delight  in  that  range  as  new;  some 
how  it  made  him  hate  selling  it  for  this  pittance. 

Harriett  thought,  however,  that  they  had  better 
let  it  go.  One  couldn't  expect  to  get  much  for 
old  things,  and  they  didn't  want  it  on  their  hands. 

They  stayed  there  awhile  in  the  dining-room, 
considering  the  problem  of  getting  out  of  the  way 
various  other  things  there  was  no  longer  any  use 
for.  Harriett  was  looking  at  the  bay  window. 
"If  the  Woodburys  take  the  house,"  she  said, 
"they  won't  want  these  shades." 

"Oh,  no,"  replied  Ted,  "they  wouldn't  be  good 
enough  for  Mildred." 


318  FIDELITY 

The  Woodburys  had  been  there  the  night  be 
fore  to  look  at  the  house ;  they  thought  of  buying 
it  and  Mildred,  just  recently  home  from  Europe 
with  Edith  Blair — they  had  had  a  hard  time  get 
ting  home,  because  of  the  war — had,  according  to 
his  own  way  of  putting  it,  made  Ted  tired.  She 
was  so  fretful  with  her  father  and  her  ideas  of 
how  the  place  could  perhaps  be  made  presenta 
ble  by  being  all  done  over  had  seemed  to  Ted 
' ' pretty  airy."  He'd  rather  strangers  had  the 
house.  He  heard  that  Mildred  was  going  about  a 
lot  with  Bob  Gearing — one  of  the  fellows  in  town 
who  had  money. 

Ted  pulled  out  his  watch.  "I  want  to  get  down 
and  see  Deane  at  his  noon  office  hours,"  he  said. 

Harriett  turned  from  the  window.  "What 
have  you  got  to  see  him  about?"  she  asked 
sharply. 

"Why — just  see  him,"  he  answered  in  sur 
prise.  "Why  shouldn't  I  want  to  see  him? 
Haven't  seen  him  since  I  got  back.  He'll  want  to 
hear  about  Euth. ' ' 

Harriett  seemed  about  to  speak,  then  looked  at 
the  door  of  the  kitchen,  where  a  man  was  packing 
dishes.  "I  don't  think  I'd  go  to  him  for  that/' 
she  said  in  lowered  voice. 

Ted  looked  at  her  in  bewildered  inquiry. 

"Mrs.  Franklin  has  left  him,"  she  said  shortly. 
She  glanced  at  the  kitchen  door,  then  added  in  a 


FIDELITY  319 

voice  that  dropped  still  lower:  "And  tlie  talk 
is  that  it's  because  of  Ruth." 

For  a  minute  Ted  just  stood  staring  at  her. 
Then  his  face  was  aflame  with  angry  blood. 
"The  talk!"  he  choked.  "So  that's  the  new 
'talk'!  Well—" 

' '  S — h, ' '  warned  Harriett,  and  stepped  over  and 
closed  the  kitchen  door. 

"I'd  like  to  tell  some  of  them  what  I  think  of 
their  'talk,'"  he  blazed.  "Oh,  I'd  like  to  tell 
some  of  these  warts — " 

"Ted!"  she  admonished,  nodding  her  head  to 
ward  the  closed  door. 

"What  do  I  care?  I'd  like  to  have  'em  hear 
me!  I  want  them  to  know  that  I — "  He  broke 
off  and  stood  looking  at  her.  "It  doesn't  seem 
to  worry  you  much!"  he  thrust  at  her. 

' '  It  did,  Ted, ' '  she  said  patiently.  '  '  I— it  did. ' ' 
She  looked  so  distressed,  so  worn  as  she  said  it 
that  it  mollified  him  until  she  added:  "And 
still,  you  mustn't  be  too  hard  on  people.  A 
woman  who  has  put  herself  in  that  position — " 

"There  you  go !  'Put  herself  in  that  position ! 
Put  herself!"  he  jeered  angrily,  "in  that  posi 
tion  !  As  if  the  position  was  something  Euth  got 
into  on  purpose !  And  after  all  these  years ! — still 
talking  about  her  'position.'  Let  me  tell  you 
something!  I'll  tell  you  the  woman  that's  'put 
herself  in  the  position  I'd  think  would  make  her 


320  FIDELITY 

hate  herself!     That's  Mrs.  Williams!    She's  the 
one  that's  'put  herself — " 

"Ted,"  she  broke  in  sternly,  "you  must  not!" 

But,  "You  make  me  sick!"  he  flung  back  at  her 
and  snatched  hat  and  coat  from  the  hall  rack 
and  left  the  house  with  a  violent  bang  of  the  front 
door. 

He  did  not  go  down  to  Deane 's  office.  He 
stalked  ahead,  trying  to  hold  down  the  bitter 
rage  that  was  almost  choking  him.  At  one  time 
when  he  looked  up  he  saw  that  he  was  passing 
the  house  Deane  Franklin  had  built  before  his 
marriage  and  noted  that  it  was  closed,  all  the 
shades  were  clear  down.  Flower  beds  that  had 
been  laid  out  in  the  spring  had  been  let  go.  It 
looked  all  wrong  to  see  a  new  place  so  deserted, 
so  run  down.  He  remembered  seeing  Deane 
working  out  in  that  yard  in  the  spring.  He  hur 
ried  on  by.  His  heart  was  hot  with  resentment — 
real  hatred — of  the  town  through  which  he  walked. 
He  loathed  the  place!  he  told  himself.  Picking 
on  Euth  for  this — ready  to  seize  on  her  for  any 
thing  that  put  her  in  bad !  He  had  been  with  Euth 
for  four  months.  He  knew  now  just  how  things 
were  with  her.  It  gave  him  some  idea  of  what  it 
was  she  had  gone  through.  It  made  him  hate  the 
town  that  had  no  feeling  for  her. 

He  had  walked  out  from  town,  not  giving  any 
thought  to  where  he  was  going,  just  walking  be 
cause  he  had  to  be  doing  something.  He  was 


FIDELITY  321 

about  to  cross  a  little  bridge  and  stepped  to  the 
side  of  the  road  to  let  the  vehicle  right  behind 
him  get  ahead.  He  stood  glaring  down  at  the 
creek  and  did  not  look  up  until  he  heard  the 
wagon,  just  as  it  struck  the  bridge,  stop.  Then 
he  saw  that  it  was  a  woman  driving  the  market 
wagon  and  recognized  her  as  Mrs.  Herman,  who 
had  been  so  good  to  Euth. 

He  stepped  up  eagerly  to  greet  her;  his  face 
quickly  cleared  as  he  held  out  his  hand  and  he 
smiled  at  her  with  a  sudden  boyish  warmth  that 
made  her  face — it  was  thin,  tired — also  light  with 
pleasure.  He  kept  shaking  her  hand;  it  seemed 
wonderfully  good  of  her  to  have  come  along  just 
then — she  was  something  friendly  in  a  hostile 
world.  He  went  out  eagerly,  gratefully,  to  the 
something  friendly.  He  had  had  about  all  he 
could  stand  of  the  other  things,  other  feelings. 
He  had  told  Kuth  that  he  would  be  sure  to  go 
and  see  Mrs.  Herman.  He  got  in  with  her  now 
and  they  talked  of  Euth  as  they  jogged  through 
the  country  which  he  now  noticed  was  aflame  with 
the  red  and  gold  of  October. 

He  found  himself  chatting  along  about  Euth 
just  as  if  there  was  not  this  other  thing  about 
her — the  thing  that  made  it  impossible  to  speak 
of  her  to  almost  anyone  else  in  the  town.  It 
helped  a  lot  to  talk  of  Euth  that  way  just  then. 
He  had  seemed  all  clogged  up  with  hatred  and 
resentment,  fury  at  the  town  made  him  want  to 


322  FIDELITY 

do  something  to  somebody,  and  pity  for  Buth 
made  him  feel  sick  in  his  sense  of  helplessness. 
Now  those  ugly  things,  those  choking,  blinding 
things  fell  away  in  his  talking  about  Buth  to  this 
woman  who  wanted  to  hear  about  her  because  she 
cared  for  her,  who  wanted  to  hear  the  simple 
little  things  about  her  that  those  other  people  had 
no  interest  in.  He  found  himself  chatting  along 
about  Buth  and  Stuart — their  house,  their  land, 
the  field  of  peas  into  which  they  turned  their 
sheep,  the  potatoes  grown  on  their  place  that  sum 
mer.  He  talked  of  artesian  wells  and  irrigation, 
of  riding  western  horses  and  of  camping  in  the 
mountains.  Thinking  of  it  afterwards  he  didn't 
know  when  he  had  talked  so  much.  And  of 
course,  as  everyone  was  doing  those  days,  they 
talked  about  the  war.  She  was  fairly  aflame  with 
feeling  about  it. 

He  rode  all  the  way  home  with  Mrs.  Herman, 
stayed  for  lunch  and  then  lingered  about  the 
place  for  an  hour  or  more  after  that.  He  felt 
more  like  himself  than  he  had  at  any  time  since 
coming  home;  he  could  forget  a  little  about  that 
desolate  house  that  was  no  longer  to  be  his  home, 
and  the  simple  friendly  interest  of  this  woman 
who  was  Buth's  friend  helped  to  heal  a  very  sore 
place  in  his  heart. 

But  afterwards,  back  there  at  home  where  it 
was  as  if  he  was  stripping  dead  years,  what  came 
over  him  was  the  feeling  that  things  were  not  as 


FIDELITY  323 

they  had  seemed  out  there  with  Mrs.  Herman. 
She  was  like  that,  but  in  being  that  way  she  was 
different  from  the  whole  world,  at  least  from  prac 
tically  the  whole  of  the  world  that  he  knew. 
Working  with  old  things  cast  him  back  to  it  all. 
He  brooded  over  it  there  in  the  desolate  place 
of  things  left  behind ;  the  resentful  feeling  toward 
the  town,  together  with  that  miserable,  helpless 
feeling  of  passionate  pity  for  Euth  settled  down 
upon  him  and  he  could  not  throw  it  off. 

He  saw  Deane  that  night;  he  saw  him  at  the 
Club  where  he  went  to  play  a  game  of  pool,  be 
cause  he  had  to  get  away  from  the  house  for 
awhile.  Deane  was  sitting  apart  from  the  various 
groups,  reading  a  magazine.  Ted  stood  in  the 
door  of  that  room  looking  at  him  a  minute  before 
Deane  looked  up  from  the  page.  He  saw  that  his 
face  was  thinner;  it  made  him  look  older;  indeed 
he  looked  a  good  deal  older  than  when,  just  the 
spring  before,  Ted  used  to  see  him  working 
around  that  place  that  was  all  shut  up  now.  And 
in  that  moment  of  scrutiny  he  saw  something  more 
than  just  looking  older.  If  you  didn't  know 
Deane  you'd  think — well,  you'd  think  you  didn't 
want  to  know  him.  And  he  looked  as  if  he  didn't 
care  about  your  knowing  him,  either;  he  looked 
as  if  he'd  thank  people  to  let  him  alone.  Then 
he  glanced  up  and  saw  Ted  and  it  seemed  there 
were  a  few  people  he  didn't  want  to  have  let  him 
alone. 


324  FIDELITY 

But  though  he  brightened  on  seeing  him,  looked 
like  himself  as  he  came  quickly  up  to  shake  hands, 
he  was  not  like  himself  in  the  talk  that  followed. 
It  was  as  if  he  wanted  to  be,  tried  to  be,  but  he 
was  constrained  in  asking  about  the  West,  "the 
folks."  He  seemed  to  want  to  hear,  yet  he  wasn't 
like  himself,  though  Ted  could  scarcely  have  de 
fined  the  difference.  He  was  short  in  what  he 
said,  cut  things  off  sharply,  and  in  little  pauses 
his  face  would  quickly  settle  to  that  moroseness. 
Ted  told  of  his  own  plans  and  Deane  was  enthu 
siastic  about  that.  Then  he  fell  silent  a  moment 
and  after  that  said  with  intensity:  "I  wish  /  was 
going  to  pull  out  from  here ! ' ' 

"Well,  why  don't  you?"  laughed  Ted,  a  little 
diffidently. 

"Haven't  got  the  gumption,  I  guess,"  said 
Deane  more  lightly,  and  as  he  smiled  gave  Ted 
the  impression  of  trying  to  pull  himself  out  from 
something. 

Later  in  the  evening  a  couple  of  men  were  talk 
ing  of  someone  who  was  ill.  "They  have  Frank 
lin,  don't  they?"  was  asked,  and  the  answer  came, 
"Not  any  more.  They've  switched." 

Walking  home,  he  thought  it  had  been  said  as 
if  there  was  more  to  it,  as  if  there  had  been 
previous  talk  about  other  people  who  had 
"switched."  Why,  surely  it  couldn't  be  that  be 
cause — for  some  reason  or  other — his  wife  had 


FIDELITY  325 

left  him  people  were  taking  it  out  on  his  practice? 
That  seemed  not  only  too  unfair  but  too  prepos 
terous.  Deane  was  the  best  doctor  in  town. 
What  had  his  private  affairs — no  matter  what  the 
state  of  them — got  to  do  with  him  as  a  physician  1 
Surely  even  that  town  couldn't  be  as  two-by-four 
as  that ! 

But  it  troubled  him  so  persistently  that  next 
morning,  when  they  were  alone  together  in  the 
attic,  he  brought  himself  to  broach  it  to  Harriett, 
asking,  in  the  manner  of  one  interested  in  a  thing 
because  of  its  very  absurdity,  just  what  the  talk 
was  about  Euth  and  the  Franklins. 

Harriett  went  on  to  give  the  town's  gossip  of 
how  Deane  had  gone  to  Indianapolis  to  see  his 
wife,  to  try  and  make  it  right,  but  her  people  were 
strongly  of  the  feeling  that  she  had  been  badly 
treated  and  it  had  ended  with  her  going  away 
somewhere  with  her  mother.  Harriett  sighed 
heavily  as  she  said  she  feared  it  was  one  of  those 
things  that  would  not  be  made  right. 

"I  call  it  the  limit !"  cried  Ted.  "The  woman 
must  be  a  fool!" 

Harriett  sadly  shook  her  head.  "You  don't  un 
derstand  women,  Ted,"  she  said. 

"And  I  don't  want  to — if  that's  what  they're 
like ! "  he  retorted  hotly. 

"I'm  afraid  Deane  didn't — manage  very  well," 
sighed  Harriett. 


326  FIDELITY 

"Who  wants  to  manage  such  a  little  fool!" 
snapped  Ted. 

"Now,  Ted — "  she  began,  but  "You  make  me 
tired,  Harriett!"  he  broke  in  passionately,  and  no 
more  was  said  of  it  then. 

They  worked  in  silence  for  awhile,  Ted  raising 
a  great  deal  of  dust  in  the  way  he  threw  things 
about,  Harriett  looking  through  a  box  of  old  books 
and  papers,  sighing  often.  Harriett  sighed  a 
great  deal,  it  seemed  to  Ted,  and  yet  something 
about  Harriett  made  him  sorry  for  her.  From 
across  the  attic  he  looked  at  her,  awkwardly  sit 
ting  on  the  floor,  leaning  against  an  old  trunk. 
She  looked  tired  and  he  thought  with  compassion 
and  remorse  for  the  rough  way  he  had  spoken  to 
her,  of  how  her  baby  was  only  a  little  more  than 
two  months  old,  that  it  must  be  hard  for  her  to 
be  doing  the  things  she  was  doing  that  week.  Har 
riett  had  grown  stout;  she  had  that  settled  look 
of  many  women  in  middle  life ;  she  looked  as  if  she 
couldn't  change  much — in  any  way.  Well,  Ted 
considered,  he  guessed  Harriett  couldn't  change 
much;  she  was  just  fixed  in  the  way  she  was  and 
that  was  all  there  was  to  it.  But  she  did  not  look 
happy  in  those  things  she  had  settled  into;  she 
looked  patient.  She  seemed  to  think  things 
couldn't  be  any  different. 

She  was  turning  the  pages  of  an  old  album  she 
had  taken  from  the  box  of  her  mother's  things 
she  was  sorting.  "Oh!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  low 


FIDELITY  327 

voice,  bending  over  the  pages.  Her  tone  brought 
Ted  over  to  her.  "A  picture  of  Ruth  as  a  baby," 
she  murmured. 

He  knelt  down  and  looked  over  her  shoulder 
into  the  dusty,  old-fashioned  album  at  a  picture 
of  a  baby  a  year  or  so  old  whose  face  was  all 
screwed  up  into  a  delighted  laugh,  tiny  hands 
raised  up  and  clenched  in  the  intensity  of  baby 
excitement,  baby  abandonment  to  the  joyousness 
of  existence. 

"She  was  like  that,"  murmured  Harriett,  a 
little  tremulously.  "She  was  the  crowmgest 
baby!" 

They  bent  over  it  in  silence  for  a  minute. 
"Seems  pretty  tickled  about  things,  doesn't  she?" 
said  Ted  with  a  queer  little  laugh.  Harriett 
sighed  heavily,  but  a  moment  later  a  tear  had 
fallen  down  to  one  of  the  baby  hands  clenched 
in  joyousness ;  the  tear  made  him  forgive  the  sigh, 
and  when  he  saw  her  carefully  take  the  picture 
from  the  album  and  put  it  in  the  pocket  of  her 
big  apron,  it  was  a  lot  easier,  somehow,  to  go  on 
working  with  Harriett.  It  was  even  easy,  after 
a  little,  to  ask  her  what  he  wanted  to  know  about 
Deane's  practice. 

It  was  true,  she  feared,  that  the  talk  had  hurt 
him  some.  Mrs.  Lawrence  had  stopped  having 
him.  It  seemed  she  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to 
Amy  Franklin  and  felt  keenly  for  her  in  this. 
She  had  made  other  people  feel  that  Deane  had 


328  FIDELITY 

not  been  fair  or  kind  and  so  there  was  some  feel 
ing  against  him. 

"I  suppose  she  can't  claim,"  Ted  cried  hotly, 
"that  it  hurts  him  as  a  doctor ?" 

"No,"  Harriett  began  uncertainly,  "except 
that  a  doctor — of  course  the  personal  side  of 
things — " 

"Now,  there  you  g\),  Harriett,"  he  interrupted 
furiously.  "You  make  me  tired!  If  it  wasn't 
that  you've  a  sneaking  feeling  for  Euth  you'd  fall 
for  such  a  thing  yourself ! ' ' 

"There's  no  use  trying  to  talk  to  you,  Ted," 
said  Harriett  patiently. 

Two  days  later  the  house  was  about  disman 
tled.  Ted  was  leaving  the  next  day  for  the  West. 
He  was  so  sick  of  the  whole  thing  that  it  had 
gone  a  little  easier  toward  the  last,  blunted  to 
everything  but  getting  things  done.  When  Har 
riett,  her  eyes  reddened,  came  downstairs  with  a 
doll  and  wanted  to  know  if  he  didn't  think  Euth 
might  like  to  have  it,  saying  that  it  was  the  doll 
Euth  had  loved  all  through  her  little  girl  days, 
and  that  she  had  just  come  upon  it  where  her 
mother  had  carefully  packed  it  away,  he  snatched 
the  doll  from  her  and  crammed  it  into  the  kitchen 
stove  and  poked  at  it  savagely  to  make  it  burn 
faster.  Then  he  slammed  down  the  lid  and  looked 
ruthlessly  up  at  Harriett  with,  "We've  had  about 
enough  of  this  sobbing  around  over  junk!" 

Harriett  wanted  him  to  come  over  to  her  house 


FIDELITY  329 

that  last  night  but  he  said  he'd  either  go  home 
with  one  of  the  fellows  or  bring  one  of  them  home 
with  him.  She  did  not  press  it,  knowing  how  lit 
tle  her  brother  and  her  husband  liked  each  other. 
He  went  to  the  theatre  that  night  with  a  couple 
of  his  friends.  He  was  glad  to  go,  for  it  was  as 
good  a  way  as  he  could  think  of  for  getting 
through  the  evening.  They  were  a  little  early  and 
he  sat  there  watching  the  people  coming  in ;  it  was 
what  would  be  called  a  representative  audience, 
the  society  of  the  town,  the  "best  people "  were 
there.  They  were  people  Ted  had  known  all  his 
life;  people  who  used  to  come  to  the  house,  peo 
ple  his  own  family  had  been  one  with;  friends  of 
his  mother  came  in,  associates  of  his  father,  old 
friends  of  Euth.  That  gathering  of  people  rep 
resented  the  things  in  the  town  that  he  and  his 
had  been  allied  with.  He  watched  them,  thinking 
of  his  own  going  away,  of  how  it  would  be  an  en 
tirely  new  group  of  people  he  would  come  to 
know,  would  become  one  with,  thinking  of  the  Hol 
lands,  how  much  they  had  been  a  part  of  it  all 
and  how  completely  they  were  out  of  it  now.  As 
he  saw  all  these  people,  such  pleasant,  good-look 
ing  people,  people  he  had  known  as  far  back  as 
he  could  remember,  in  whose  homes  he  had  had 
good  times,  people  his  own  people  had  been  asso 
ciated  with  always,  a  feeling  of  really  hating  to 
leave  the  town,  of  its  being  hard  to  go  away,  crept 
up  in  him.  He  talked  along  with  the  friend  next 


330  FIDELITY 

him  and  watched  people  taking  their  seats  with 
a  new  feeling  for  them  all;  now  that  he  was  ac 
tually  leaving  them  he  had  a  feeling  of  affection 
for  the  people  with  whom  he  sat  in  the  theatre 
that  night.  He  had  known  them  always;  they 
were  " mixed  up"  with  such  a  lot  of  old  things. 

Some  people  came  into  one  of  the  boxes  during 
the  first  act  and  when  the  lights  went  up  for  the 
intermission  he  saw  that  one  of  the  women  was 
Stuart  Williams'  wife. 

He  turned  immediately  to  his  friends  and  be 
gan  a  lively  conversation  about  the  play,  painfully 
wondering  if  the  fellows  he  was  with  had  seen 
her  too,  if  they  were  wondering  whether  he  had 
seen  her,  whether  he  was  thinking  about  it.  His 
feeling  of  gentle  regret  about  leaving  the  town 
was  struck  away.  He  was  glad  this  was  his  last 
night.  Always  something  like  this!  It  was  for 
ever  coming  up,  making  him  feel  uncomfortable, 
different,  making  him  wonder  whether  people 
were  thinking  about  "it,"  whether  they  were  won 
dering  whether  he  was  thinking  about  it. 

Through  the  years  he  had  grown  used  to  see 
ing  Mrs.  Williams;  he  had  become  blunted  to  it; 
sometimes  he  could  see  her  without  really  being 
conscious  of  "it,"  just  because  he  was  used  to 
seeing  her.  But  now  that  he  had  just  come  home, 
had  been  with  Euth,  there  was  an  acute  new  shock 
in  seeing  her. 

During  the  first  intermission  he  never  looked 


FIDELITY  331 

back  after  that  first  glance;  but  when  the  house 
was  darkened  again  it  was  not  at  the  stage  he 
looked  most.  From  his  place  in  the  dress  circle 
across  the  house  he  could  look  over  at  her,  se 
cured  by  the  dim  light  could  covertly  watch  her. 
It  was  hard  to  keep  his  eyes  from  her.  She  sat 
well  to  the  front  of  the  box;  he  could  see  every 
move  she  made,  and  every  little  thing  about  her 
wretchedly  fascinated  him.  She  sat  erect,  hands 
loosely  clasped  in  her  lap,  seemingly  absorbed  in 
the  play.  Her  shoulders  seemed  very  white  above 
her  gauzy  black  dress;  in  that  light,  at  least,  she 
was  beautiful;  her  neck  was  long  and  slim  and 
her  hair  was  coiled  high  on  her  head.  He  saw  a 
woman  bend  forward  from  the  rear  of  the  box 
and  speak  to  her;  it  brought  her  face  into  the 
light  and  he  saw  that  it  was  Mrs.  Blair — Edith 
Lawrence,  Buth's  old  chum.  He  crumpled  the  pro 
gram  in  his  hand  until  his  friend  looked  at  him  in 
inquiry;  then  he  smiled  a  little  and  carefully 
smoothed  the  program  out.  But  when,  in  the 
next  intermission,  he  was  asked  something  about 
how  he  thought  the  play  was  going  to  turn  out, 
he  was  at  a  loss  for  a  suggestion.  He  had  not 
known  what  that  act  was  about.  And  he  scarcely 
knew  what  the  other  acts  were  about.  It  was  all 
newly  strange  to  him,  newly  sad.  He  had  a  new 
sense  of  it,  and  a  new  sense  of  the  pity  of  it,  as 
he  sat  there  that  last  night  watching  the  people 
who  had  been  Buth's  and  Stuart 's  friends;  he 


332  FIDELITY 

thought  of  how  they  had  once  been  a  part  of  all 
this ;  how,  if  things  had  gone  differently  it  was  the 
thing  they  would  still  be  a  part  of.  There  was 
something  about  seeing  Edith  Lawrence  there  with 
Mrs.  Williams  made  him  so  sorry  for  Euth  that  it 
was  hard  to  keep  himself  pulled  together.  And 
that  house,  this  new  sense  of  things,  made  him 
deeply  sorry  for  Stuart  Williams.  He  knew  that 
he  missed  all  this,  terribly  missed  the  things  this 
represented.  His  constant,  off-hand  questionings 
about  things — about  the  growth  of  the  town, 
whether  so  and  so  was  making  good,  who  was 
running  this  or  that,  showed  how  he  was  missing 
the  things  he  had  turned  away  from,  of  which  he 
had  once  been  so  promising  a  part.  Here  to 
night,  among  the  things  they  had  left,  something 
made  him  more  sorry  for  Euth  and  Stuart  than 
he  had  ever  been  before.  And  he  kept  thinking 
of  the  strangeness  of  things ;  of  how,  if  there  had 
not  been  that  one  thing,  so  many  things  would 
have  been  different.  For  their  whole  family,  for 
the  Williams'  family,  yes,  for  Deane  Franklin, 
too,  it  would  have  been  all  different  if  Euth  had 
just  fallen  in  love  with  some  one  else.  Somehow 
that  seemed  disloyalty  to  Euth.  He  told  himself 
she  couldn't  help  it.  He  guessed  she  got  it  the 
worst;  everything  would  have  been  different,  eas 
ier,  for  her,  certainly,  if  she,  like  the  other  girls 
of  her  crowd,  had  fallen  in  love  with  one  of  the 
fellows  she  could  have  married.  Then  she  would 


FIDELITY  333 

be  there  with  Edith  Lawrence  tonight;  probably 
they  would  be  in  a  box  together. 

It  was  hard,  even  when  the  lights  were  up,  to 
keep  his  eyes  from  that  box  where  Ruth's  old 
friend  sat  with  Mrs.  Williams.  He  would  seem 
to  be  looking  the  house  over,  and  then  for  a  min 
ute  his  eyes  would  rest  there  and  it  would  be  an 
effort  to  let  go.  Once  he  found  Mrs.  Williams 
looking  his  way ;  he  thought  she  saw  him  and  was 
furious  at  himself  for  the  quick  reddening.  He 
could  not  tell  whether  she  was  looking  at  him  or 
not.  She  had  that  cool,  composed  manner  she 
always  had.  Always  when  he  met  her  so  directly 
that  they  had  to  speak  she  would  seem  quite  un 
perturbed,  as  if  he  stirred  in  her  no  more  feeling 
than  any  other  slight  acquaintance  would  stir. 
She  was  perfectly  poised;  it  would  not  seem  that 
he,  what  he  must  suggest,  had  any  power  to  dis 
turb  her. 

Looking  across  at  her  in  the  house  darkened 
for  the  last  act,  covertly  watching  her  as  she  sat 
there  in  perfect  command  of  herself,  apparently 
quite  without  disturbing  feeling,  he  had  a  rough 
desire  to  know  what  she  actually  did  feel.  A 
light  from  the  stage  surprised  her  face  and  he 
saw  that  it  showed  it  more  tired  than  serene.  She 
looked  bored ;  and  she  did  not  look  content.  See 
ing  her  in  that  disclosing  little  shaft  of  light — 
she  had  drawn  back  from  it — the  thought  broke 
into  the  boy's  mind — What's  she  getting  out  of  it? 


334  FIDELITY 

He  had  never  really  considered  it  purely  in  the 
light  of  what  it  must  be  to  her.  He  thought  of 
her  as  a  hard,  revengeful  woman,  who,  because 
hurt  herself,  was  going  to  harm  to  the  full  meas 
ure  of  her  power.  He  despised  the  pride,  the 
poise,  in  which  she  cloaked  what  he  thought  of 
as  her  hard,  mean  spirit;  he  thought  people  a 
pretty  poor  sort  for  admiring  that  pride.  But 
now,  as  he  saw  her  face  when  she  was  not  expect 
ing  it  to  be  clearly  seen,  he  wondered  just  what 
she  was  actually  like,  just  what  she  really  felt.  It 
would  seem  that  revenge  must  be  appeased  by  now ; 
or  at  least  that  that  one  form  of  taking  it — not 
getting  a  divorce — must  have  lost  its  satisfaction. 
It  would  not  seem  a  very  satisfying  thing  to  fill 
one's  life  with.  And  what  else  was  there?  What 
was  she  getting  out  of  it  ?  The  question  gave  him 
a  new  interest  in  her. 

Caught  in  the  crowd  leaving  the  theatre  he 
watched  her  again  for  a  moment,  standing  among 
the  people  who  were  waiting  for  motors  and  car 
riages.  The  thin  black  scarf  around  her  head 
blew  back  and  Edith  Lawrence  adjusted  it  for 
her.  Her  car  came  up  and  one  of  the  men  helped 
her  into  it.  There  was  a  dispute ;  it  seemed  some 
one  was  meaning  to  go  with  her  and  she  was  pro 
testing  that  it  was  not  necessary.  Then  they  were 
saying  goodnight  to  her  and  she  was  going  away 
alone.  He  watched  the  car  for  a  moment  as  it 


FIDELITY  335 

was  halted  by  a  carriage,  then  skirted  it  and 
sharply  turned  the  corner. 

He  had  intended  to  take  one  of  his  friends  home 
with  him,  had  thought  it  would  be  too  dismal  alone 
there  in  the  bare  place  that  last  night.  But  now 
he  did  not  want  anyone  with  him,  did  not  want  to 
have  to  talk.  Though  when  he  let  himself  in  the 
front  door  he  wished  he  was  not  alone.  It  was 
pretty  dismal  to  be  coming  into  the  abandoned 
house.  He  had  a  flashing  sense  of  how  absolutely 
empty  the  place  was — empty  of  the  people  who  had 
lived  there,  empty  even  of  those  people's  things. 
There  was  no  one  to  call  out  to  him.  His  step 
made  a  loud  noise  on  the  bare  stairs.  He  went 
back  down  stairs  for  a  drink  of  water;  he  walked 
through  the  living-room,  the  dining-room,  the 
kitchen.  There  used  to  be  people  there — things 
doing.  Not  any  more.  A  bare  house  now — so 
empty  that  it  was  queer.  He  hurried  back  up 
stairs.  At  the  head  of  the  stairs  he  stood  still 
and  listened  to  the  stillness  from  the  bedrooms. 
Then  he  shook  himself  angrily,  stamped  on  to  his 
own  room,  loudly  banged  the  door  behind  him 
and  whistled  as  he  hurriedly  got  ready  for  bed. 

He  tried  to  go  right  to  sleep,  but  could  not  get 
sleepy.  He  was  thinking  of  the  house — of  things 
that  had  gone  on  there.  He  thought  of  Euth  and 
Stuart — of  the  difference  they  had  made  in  that 
house.  And  he  kept  thinking  of  Mrs.  Williams, 


336  FIDELITY 

thinking  in  this  new  way  of  the  difference  it  must 
have  meant  to  her,  must  have  made  in  her  house. 
He  wondered  about  the  house  she  had  just  gone 
home  to,  wondered  if  she  got  lonely,  wondered 
about  the  feeling  there  might  be  beneath  that 
manner  of  not  seeming  to  mind.  He  wondered 
just  what  it  was  made  her  keep  from  getting  a 
divorce.  And  suddenly  the  strangest  thought  shot 
into  his  mind — Had  anyone  ever  asked  her  to  get 
a  divorce ! 

Then  he  laughed ;  he  had  to  make  himself  laugh 
at  the  preposterousness  of  his  idea.  The  laugh 
made  such  a  strange  sound  in  the  bare  room  that 
he  lay  there  very  still  for  a  moment.  Then  loudly 
he  cleared  his  throat,  as  if  to  show  that  he  was 
not  afraid  of  making  another  noise. 

But  the  house  was  so  strangely  still,  empty  in 
such  a  queer  way;  it  was  too  strange  to  let  him 
go  to  sleep,  and  he  lay  there  thinking  of  things 
in  a  queer  way.  That  preposterous  idea  kept 
coming  back.  Maybe  nobody  ever  had  asked  her 
to  get  the  divorce;  maybe  it  had  just  been  taken 
for  granted  that  she  would  be  hard,  would  make 
it  as  hard  as  she  could.  He  tried  to  keep  away 
from  that  thought,  something  made  him  want  to 
keep  away  from  it,  but  he  could  not  banish  that 
notion  that  there  were  people  who  would  be  as 
decent  as  it  was  assumed  they  would  be.  He  had 
noticed  that  with  the  fellows,  Finally  he  got  a 
little  sleepy  and  he  had  a  childish  wish  that  he 


FIDELITY  337 

were  not  alone,  that  it  could  all  be  again  as  it  had 
been  long  ago  when  they  were  all  there  together — 
before  Euth  went  away. 

He  slept  heavily  toward  morning  and  was  at 
last  awakened  by  the  persistent  ringing  of  the 
door-bell.  It  was  a  special  delivery  letter  from 
Euth.  She  said  she  hoped  it  would  catch  him  be 
fore  he  started  West.  She  wanted  him  to  stop  in 
Denver  and  see  if  he  could  get  one  of  those  "  Jap" 
men  of  all  work.  She  said:  "Maggie  Gordon's 
mother  has  'heard'  and  came  and  took  her  home. 
I  turn  to  the  Japanese — or  Chinese,  if  it's  a  China 
man  you  can  get  to  come, — as  perhaps  having  less 
fear  of  moral  contamination.  Do  the  best  you 
can,  Ted;  I  need  someone  badly." 

He  was  to  leave  at  five  o'clock  that  afternoon. 
The  people  whom  he  saw  thought  he  was  feeling 
broken  up  about  leaving;  he  had  to  hold  back 
all  feeling,  they  thought ;  it  was  that  made  his  face 
so  set  and  queer  and  his  manner  so  abrupt  and 
grim. 

He  had  lunch  with  Harriett.  She  too  thought 
the  breaking  up,  the  going  away,  had  been  almost 
too  much  for  him.  She  hated  to  have  him  go,  and 
yet,  for  his  sake,  she  would  be  glad  to  have  it 
over. 

At  two  o'clock  he  had  finished  the  things  he  had 
to  do.  He  had  promised  to  look  in  on  a  few  of 
his  friends  and  say  good-by.  But  when  he  waited 
on  the  corner  for  the  car  that  would  take  him 


338  FIDELITY 

down  town  he  knew  in  his  heart  that  he  was  not 
going  to  take  that  car.  He  knew,  though  up  to 
the  very  last  he  tried  not  to  know,  that  he  was 
going  to  walk  along  that  street  a  block  and  a  half 
farther  and  turn  in  at  the  house  Stuart  Williams 
had  built.  He  knew  he  was  not  going  to  leave 
Freeport  without  doing  that.  And  when  he 
stood  there  and  let  the  car  go  by  he  faced  what 
he  had  in  his  heart  known  he  was  going  to  do  ever 
since  reading  Buth's  letter,  turned  and  started 
toward  Mrs.  Williams ',  walking  very  fast,  as  if  to 
get  there  before  he  could  turn  back.  He  fairly 
ran  up  the  steps  and  pushed  the  bell  in  great 
haste — having  to  get  it  pushed  before  he  could  re 
fuse  to  push  it. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINE 

When  lie  could  not  get  away,  after  the  maid 
had  let  him  in  and  he  had  given  his  name  and 
was  waiting  in  the  formal  little  reception  room, 
he  was  not  only  more  frightened  than  he  had  ever 
been  in  his  life,  but  frightened  in  a  way  he  had 
never  known  anything  about  before.  He  sat  far 
forward  on  the  stiff  little  French  chair,  fairly 
afraid  to  let  his  feet  press  on  the  rug.  He  did 
not  look  around  him;  he  did  not  believe  he  would 
be  able  to  move  when  he  had  to  move;  he  knew 
he  would  not  be  able  to  speak.  He  was  appalled 
at  the  consciousness  of  what  he  had  done,  of  where 
he  was.  He  would  joyfully  have  given  anything 
he  had  in  the  world  just  to  be  out  doors,  just  not 
to  have  been  there  at  all.  There  was  what  seemed 
a  long  wait  and  the  only  way  he  got  through  it 
was  by  telling  himself  that  Mrs.  Williams  would 
not  see  him.  Of  course  she  wouldn't  see  him! 

There  was  a  step  on  the  stairs ;  he  told  himself 
that  it  was  the  maid,  coming  to  say  Mrs.  Williams 
could  not  see  him.  But  when  he  knew  there  was 
someone  in  the  doorway  he  looked  up  and  then, 
miraculously,  he  was  on  his  feet  and  standing 
there  bowing  to  Mrs.  Williams. 

He  thought  she  looked  startled  upon  actually 

339 


340  FIDELITY 

seeing  him,  as  if  she  had  not  believed  it  was  really 
he.  There  was  a  hesitating  moment  when  she 
stood  in  the  doorway,  a  moment  of  looking  a  little 
as  if  trying  to  overcome  a  feeling  of  being  suddenly 
sick.  Then  she  stepped  forward  and,  though 
pale,  had  her  usual  manner  of  complete  self-pos 
session.  "You  wished  to  see  me?"  she  asked  in 
an  even  tone  faintly  tinged  with  polite  incredulity. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  and  was  so  relieved  at  his  voice 
sounding  pretty  much  all  right  that  he  drew  a 
longer  breath. 

She  looked  hesitatingly  at  a  chair,  then  sat 
down ;  he  resumed  his  seat  on  the  edge  of  the  stiff 
little  chair. 

She  sat  there  waiting  for  him  to  speak ;  she  still 
had  that  look  of  polite  incredulity.  She  sat  erect, 
her  hands  loosely  clasped ;  she  appeared  perfectly 
poised,  unperturbed,  but  when  she  made  a  move 
ment  for  her  handkerchief  he  saw  that  her  hand 
was  shaking. 

"I  know  I've  got  my  nerve  to  come  here,  Mrs. 
Williams, ' '  he  blurted  out. 

She  smiled  faintly,  and  he  saw  that  as  she  did 
so  her  lip  twitched. 

"I'm  leaving  for  the  West  this  afternoon.  I'm 
going  out  there  to  live — to  work."  That  he  had 
said  quite  easily.  It  was  a  little  more  effort  to 
add:  "And  I  wanted  to  see  you  before  I  went." 

She  simply  sat  there  waiting,  but  there  was  still 
that  little  twitching  of  her  lip. 


FIDELITY  341 

"Mrs.  Williams, "  he  began  quietly,  "I  don't 
know  whether  or  not  you  know  that  I've  been  with 
my  sister  Euth  this  summer." 

When  she  heard  that  name  spoken  there  was  a 
barely  perceptible  drawing  back,  as  when  some 
thing  is  flicked  before  one's  eyes.  Then  her  lips 
set  more  firmly.  Ted  looked  down  and  smoothed 
out  the  soft  hat  he  was  holding,  which  he  had 
clutched  out  of  shape.  Then  he  looked  up  and 
said,  voice  low :  ' '  Euth  has  come  to  mean  a  great 
deal  to  me,  Mrs.  Williams." 

And  still  she  did  not  speak,  but  sat  very  straight 
and  there  were  two  small  red  spots  now  in  her  pale 
cheeks. 

"And  so,"  he  murmured,  after  a  moment, 
i  l  that 's  why  I  came  to  you. ' ' 

"I  think,"  she  said  in  a  low,  incisive,  but  un 
steady  voice,  "that  I  do  not  quite  follow." 

He  looked  at  her  in  a  very  simple,  earnest  way. 
"You  don't!"  he  asked.  There  was  a  pause  and 
then  he  said,  * '  I  saw  you  at  the  theatre  last  night. ' ' 

"Indeed?"  she  murmured  with  a  faint  note  of 
irony. 

But  she  did  not  deflect  him  from  that  simple 
earnestness.  "And  when  I  went  home  I  thought 
about  you."  He  paused  and  then  added,  gently, 
"Most  all  night,  I  thought  about  you." 

And  still  she  only  sat  there  looking  at  him  and 
as  if  holding  herself  very  tight.  She  had  tried  to 
smile  at  that  last  and  the  little  disdainful  smile  had 


342  FIDELITY 

stiffened  on  her  lips,  making  them  look  pulled  out 
of  shape  and  set  that  way. 

"I  said  to  myself, "  Ted  went  on,  "  < What's  she 
getting  out  of  it!'  "  His  voice  came  up  on  that; 
he  said  it  rather  roughly. 

Her  face  flamed.  "If  this  is  what  you  have 
come  here  to  say — "  she  began  in  a  low  angry 
voice.  "If  this  is  what  you  have  intruded  into  my 
house  for — you — !"  She  made  a  movement  as  if 
about  to  rise. 

Ted  threw  out  his  hand  with  a  little  gesture  of 
wanting  to  explain.  ' i  Maybe  I  shouldn  't  have  put 
it  that  way.  I  hope  I  didn't  seem  rude.  I  only 
meant,"  he  said  gently,  "that  as  I  watched  you 
you  didn't  look  as  though  you  were  happy." 

"And  what  if  I'm  not?"  she  cried,  as  if  stung  by 
that.  ' '  What  if  I  'm  not  1  Does  that  give  you  any 
right  to  come  here  and  tell  me  so ! " 

He  shook  his  head,  as  if  troubled  at  again  put 
ting  things  badly.  "I  really  came,"  he  said,  in  a 
low  earnest  voice,  "because  it  seemed  to  me  it  must 
be  that  you  did  not  understand.  It  occurred  to  me 
that  perhaps  no  one  had  ever  tried  to  make  you  un 
derstand.  I  came  because  it  seemed  fairer — to 
everybody. ' ' 

Something  new  leaped  into  her  eyes.  "I  pre 
sume  it  was  suggested  to  you  1 ' '  she  asked  sharply. 

"No,  Mrs.  Williams,  it  was  not  suggested  to 
me."  As  she  continued  to  look  at  him  with  sus 
picion  he  colored  a  little  and  said  quietly:  "You 


FIDELITY  343 

will  have  to  believe  that,  because  I  give  you  my 
word  that  it  is  true. ' ' 

She  met  the  direct  look  of  his  clear  hazel  eyes 
and  the  suspicion  died  out  of  her  own.  But  new 
feeling  quickly  flamed  up.  "And  hasn't  it  oc 
curred  to  you,"  she  asked  quiveringly,  "that  you 
are  rather  a — well,  to  be  very  mild  indeed,  rather 
a  presumptuous  young  man  to  come  to  me,  to  come 
into  my  house,  with  this?"  There  was  a  big  rush 
of  feeling  as  she  choked:  "Nobody's  spoken  to 
me  like  this  in  all  these  years ! ' ' 

"That's  just  the  trouble,"  said  Ted  quickly,  as 
if  they  were  really  getting  at  it  now.  '  <  That 's  just 
the  trouble." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked  sharply. 

"Why — just  that.  Nobody  has  talked  to  you 
about  it.  Everybody  has  been  afraid  to,  and  so 
you've  just  been  let  alone  with  it.  Things  get 
worse,  get  all  twisted  up,  get  themselves  into  a 
tight  twist  that  won't  come  out  when  we're  shut  up 
with  them."  His  face  looked  older  as  he  said,  "I 
know  that  myself."  He  meditated  upon  that  an 
instant;  then,  quickly  coming  back  to  her,  looked 
up  and  added  gently:  "So  it  seemed  to  me  that 
maybe  you  hadn't  had  a  fair  show  just  because 
everybody  has  been  afraid  of  you  and  let  you 
alone." 

Her  two  trembling  hands  were  pulling  at  her 
handkerchief.  Her  eyes  were  very  bright.  ' l  And 
you  aren't  afraid  of  me?"  she  asked  with  a  little 


344  FIDELITY 

laugh  that  seemed  trying  to  be  mocking  but  was 
right  on  the  edge  of  tears. 

He  shook  his  head.  "That  is,"  he  qualified  it 
with  a  slight  smile,  "not  much — now."  Then  he 
said,  as  if  dropping  what  they  were  talking  about 
and  giving  her  a  confidence :  * l  While  I  was  wait 
ing  for  you  I  was  so  scared  that  I  wished  I  could 
drop  dead." 

His  smile  in  saying  it  was  so  boyish  that  she  too 
dropped  the  manner  of  what  they  were  talking 
about  and  faintly  smiled  back  at  him.  It  seemed 
to  help  her  gain  possession  of  herself  and  she  re 
turned  to  the  other  with  a  crisp,  "And  so,  as  I  un 
derstand  it,  you  thought  you  'd  just  drop  in  and  set 
everything  right  ? ' ' 

He  flushed  and  looked  at  her  a  little  reproach 
fully.  Then  he  said,  simply,  "It  seemed  worth 
trying."  He  took  a  letter  from  his  pocket.  "I 
got  this  from  my  sister  this  morning.  The  girl 
who  has  been  working  for  her  has  gone  away. 
Her  mother  came  and  took  her  away.  She  had 
*  heard.'  They're  always  l  hearing.'  This  has 
happened  time  after  time. ' ' 

"Now  just  let  me  understand  it,"  she  began  in 
that  faintly  mocking  way,  though  her  voice  was 
shaking.  "You  propose  that  I  do  something  to 
make  the — the  servant  problem  easier  for  your 
sister.  Is  that  it?  I  am  to  do  something,  you 
haven't  yet  said  what,  to  facilitate  the  domestic 
arrangements  of  the  woman  who  is  living  with  my 


FIDELITY  345 

husband.  That's  it,  isn't  it?"  she  asked  with 
seeming  concern. 

He  reddened,  but  her  scoffing  seemed  to  give  him 
courage,  as  if  he  had  something  not  to  be  scoffed 
at  and  could  produce  it.  ' '  It  can  be  made  to  sound 
ridiculous,  can't  it!"  he  concurred.  "But — "  he 
broke  off  and  his  eyes  went  very  serious.  "You 
never  knew  Euth  very  well,  did  you,  Mrs.  Wil 
liams!"  he  asked  quietly. 

The  flush  spread  over  her  face.  "We  were  not 
intimate  friends, ' '  was  her  dry  answer,  but  in  that 
voice  not  steady. 

He  again  colored,  but  that  steady  light  was  not 
driven  from  his  eyes.  "Ruth's  had  a  terrible 
time,  Mrs.  Williams,"  he  said  in  a  quiet  voice  of 
strong  feeling.  "And  if  you  had  known  her  very 
well — knew  just  what  it  is  Ruth  is  like — it  seems 
to  me  you  would  have  to  feel  sorry  for  her. ' ' 

She  seemed  about  to  speak  again  in  that  mock 
ing  way,  but  looking  at  his  face — the  fine  serious 
ness,  the  tender  concern — she  kept  silence. 

"And  just  what  is  it  you  propose  that  I  do?" 
she  asked  after  a  moment,  as  if  trying  to  appear 
faintly  amused. 

Very  seriously  he  looked  up  at  her.  "It  would 
help — even  at  this  late  day — if  you  would  get  n 
divorce. ' ' 

She  gasped ;  whether  she  had  been  prepared  for 
it  or  not  she  was  manifestly  unprepared  for  the 
simple  way  he  said  it.  For  a  moment  she  stared 


346  FIDELITY 

at  him.  Then  she  laughed.  "You  are  a  most 
amazing  young  man ! ' '  she  said  quiveringly. 

As  he  did  not  speak,  but  only  looked  at  her  in 
that  simple  direct  way,  she  went  on,  with  rising 
feeling,  "You  come  here,  to  me,,  into  my  house, 
proposing  that — in  order  to  make  things  easier  for 
your  sister  in  living  with  my  husband — I  get  a  di 
vorce  ! ' ' 

He  did  not  flinch.  "It  might  do  more  than 
make  things  easier  for  my  sister, ' '  he  said  quietly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded  sharply. 

"It  might  make  things  easier  for  you." 

"And  what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  she  asked  in 
that  quick  sharp  way. 

"It  might  make  things  easier,"  he  said,  "just  to 
feel  that,  even  at  this  late  day,  you've  done  the 
decent  thing. ' ' 

She  stood  up.  "Do  you  know,  young  man,  that 
you've  said  things  to  me  that  are  outrageous  to 
have  said  ? ' '  She  was  trembling  so  it  seemed  hard 
to  speak.  "I've  let  you  go  on  just  because  I  was 
stupified  by  your  presumption — staggered,  and 
rather  amused  at  your  childish  audacity.  But 
you've  gone  a  little  too  far!  How  dare  you  talk 
to  me  like  this?"  she  demanded  with  passion. 

He  had  moved  toward  the  door.  He  looked  at 
her,  then  looked  away.  His  control  was  all  broken 
down  now.  "I'm  sorry  to  have  it  end  like  this," 
he  muttered. 

She  laughed  a  little,  but  she  was  shaken  with  the 


FIDELITY  347 

sobs  she  was  plainly  making  a  big  effort  to  hold 
back.  "I'm  so  sorry, "  he  said  with  such  real 
feeling  that  the  tears  brimmed  from  her  eyes. 

He  stood  there  awkwardly.  Somehow  her  house 
seemed  very  lonely,  comfortless.  And  now  that 
her  composure  was  broken  down,  the  way  she 
looked  made  him  very  sorry  for  her. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think,"  he  said  gently, 
"that  I  don't  see  how  bad  it  has  been  for  you." 

She  tried  to  laugh.  "You  don't  think  your  sis 
ter  was  very — fair  to  me,  do  you  1 ' '  she  asked  chok 
ingly,  looking  at  him  in  a  way  more  appealing  than 
aggressive. 

'  '  I  suppose  not, ' '  he  said.  '  '  No,  I  suppose  not. ' ' 
He  stood  there  considering  that.  "But  I  guess," 
he  went  on  diffidently,  "I  don't  just  know  myself — 
but  it  seems  there  come  times  when  being  fair  gets 
sort  of — lost  sight  of." 

The  tears  were  running  down  her  face  and  she 
was  not  trying  to  check  them. 

He  stood  there  another  minute  and  then  timidly 
held  out  his  hand.  ' '  Good-by,  Mrs.  Williams, ' '  he 
said  gently. 

She  took  his  hand  with  a  queer,  choking  little 
laugh  and  held  it  very  tight  for  a  minute,  as  if  to 
steady  herself. 

His  own  eyes  had  dimmed.  Then  he  smiled — a 
smile  that  seemed  to  want  to  go  ahead  and  take 
any  offence  or  hurt  from  what  he  was  about  to  say. 
"Maybe,  Mrs.  Williams,  that  you  will  come  to  feel 


348  FIDELITY 

like  being  fairer  to  Buth  than  Ruth  was  to  you." 
His  smile  widened  and  he  looked  very  boyish  as  he 
finished,  "And  that  would  be  one  way  of  getting 
back,  you  know ! ' ' 


CHAPTEK  THIRTY 

Freeport  had  a  revival  of  interest  in  Mrs.  Stu 
art  Williams  that  fall.  They  talked  so  much  of 
her  in  the  first  years  that  discussion  had  pretty 
well  spent  itself,  and  latterly  it  had  only  heen 
rarely — to  a  stranger,  or  when  something  came  up 
to  bring  it  to  them  freshly — that  they  did  more 
than  occasionally  repeat  the  expressions  which 
that  first  feeling  had  created.  There  was  no  new 
thing  to  say  of  their  feeling  about  her.  No  one 
had  become  intimate  with  her  in  those  years,  and 
that  itself  somehow  kept  the  picture.  She  was 
unique,  and  fascinated  them  in  the  way  she  was  one 
of  them  and  yet  apart.  The  mystery  enveloping 
her  made  it  mean  more  than  it  could  have  meant 
through  disclosures  from  her.  It  kept  it  more 
poignant  to  speculate  about  a  concealed  suffer 
ing  than  it  could  have  continued  to  be  through  dis 
cussing  confidences.  But  even  speculation  as  to 
what  was  beneath  that  unperturbed  surface  had 
rather  talked  itself  out,  certainly  had  lost  its  keen 
edge  of  interest  with  the  passing  of  the  years. 

That  fall,  however,  they  began  to  speak  of  a 
change  in  her.  They  said  first  that  she  did  not 
look  well ;  then  they  began  to  talk  about  her  man 
ner  being  different.  She  had  always  kept  so  calm, 

349 


350  FIDELITY 

and  now  there  were  times  when  she  appeared 
nervous.  She  had  had  throughout  a  certain  cold 
serenity.  Now  she  was  sometimes  irritable,  dis 
closing  a  fretfulness  close  under  the  untroubled 
surface.  She  looked  older,  they  said;  her  brows 
knit  and  there  were  lines  about  mouth  and  eyes. 
She  seemed  less  sure  of  herself.  It  made  interest 
in  her  a  fresh  thing.  They  wondered  if  she  were 
not  at  last  breaking,  spoke  with  a  careful  show  of 
regret,  concern,  but  whetted  anticipations  gave 
eagerness  to  voices  of  sympathy.  They  wondered 
if  Euth  Holland's  having  come  home  in  the  Spring, 
the  feeling  of  her  being  in  the  town,  could  have 
been  too  much  of  a  strain,  preying  upon  the  de 
serted  wife  and  causing  her  later  to  break.  There 
were  greedy  wonderings  as  to  whether  she  could 
possibly  have  seen  Euth  Holland,  whether  any 
thing  had  happened  that  they  did  not  know  about. 
Late  one  December  afternoon  Mrs.  Williams 
came  home  from  a  church  bazaar  and  curtly  tele 
phoned  that  she  would  not  be  back  for  the  evening. 
She  spoke  of  a  headache.  And  her  head  did  ache. 
It  ached,  she  bitterly  reflected,  from  being  looked 
at,  from  knowing  they  were  taking  observations 
for  subsequent  speculation.  She  had  been  in 
charge  of  a  table  at  the  bazaar ;  a  number  of  little 
things  had  gone  wrong  and  she  got  out  of  patience 
with  one  of  her  assistants.  Other  people  got  irri 
tated  upon  occasions  of  that  sort — and  that  was  all 
there  was  to  it.  But  she  was  not  at  liberty  to 


FIDELITY  351 

show  annoyance.  She  knew  at  the  time  that  they 
were  whispering  around  about  it,  connecting  it 
with  the  thing  about  her  that  it  seemed  never 
really  went  out  of  their  minds.  The  sense  of  that 
had  made  her  really  angry  and  she  had  said  sharp 
things  she  knew  she  would  be  sorry  for  because 
they  would  just  be  turned  over  as  part  of  the  thing 
that  was  everlastingly  being  turned  over.  She 
was  not  free;  they  were  always  watching  her; 
even  after  all  these  years  always  thinking  that 
everything  had  something  to  do  with  that. 

Mrs.  Hughes,  her  housekeeper  and  cook,  had 
followed  her  upstairs.  At  the  door  of  her  room 
she  turned  impatiently.  She  had  known  by  the 
way  the  woman  hung  around  downstairs  that  she 
wanted  to  say  something  to  her  and  she  had  petu 
lantly  not  given  her  the  chance.  She  did  not  want 
anything  said  to  her.  She  wanted  to  be  let  alone. 

"Well?"  she  inquired  ungraciously. 

Mrs.  Hughes  was  a  small  trim  woman  who  had  a 
look  of  modestly  trying  not  to  be  obtrusive  about 
her  many  virtues.  She  had  now  that  manner  of 
one  who  could  be  depended  upon  to  assume  re 
sponsibilities  a  less  worthy  person  would  pass  by. 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  should  know,  Mrs.  Wil 
liams,"  she  said  with  faintly  rebuking  patience, 
i '  that  Lily  has  gone  to  bed. ' ' 

"Oh,  she's  really  sick  then,  is  she?"  asked  Mrs. 
Williams,  unbending  a  little. 

"She  says  so,"  replied  Mrs.  Hughes. 


352  FIDELITY 

The  tone  caused  her  to  look  at  the  woman  in 
surprise.  "Well,  I  presume  she  is  then,"  she  an 
swered  sharply. 

Lily  was  the  second  girl.  Two  servants  were 
not  needed  for  the  actual  work  as  the  household 
consisted  only  of  Mrs.  Williams  and  an  aged  aunt 
who  had  lived  with  her  since  she  had  been  alone, 
but  the  house  itself  did  not  seem  adapted  to  a  one 
servant  menage.  There  had  been  two  before,  and 
in  that,  as  in  other  things,  she  had  gone  right  on  in 
the  same  way.  Mrs.  Hughes  had  been  with  her  for 
several  years  but  Lily  had  been  there  only  three 
or  four  months.  She  had  been  a  strange  addition 
to  the  household;  she  laughed  a  good  deal  and 
tripped  about  at  her  work  and  sang.  But  she  had 
not  sung  so  much  of  late  and  in  the  last  few  days 
had  plainly  not  been  well. 

"If  .she's  really  sick,  we'll  have  to  have  a  doctor 
for  her,"  Mrs.  Williams  said,  her  hand  on  the 
knob  she  was  about  to  turn. 

"She  says  she  doesn't  want  a  doctor,"  answered 
Mrs.  Hughes,  and  again  her  tone  made  Mrs.  Wil 
liams  look  at  her  in  impatient  inquiry. 

"Well,  I'll  go  up  after  while  and  see  her  my 
self,"  she  said,  opening  the  door  of  her  room. 
"Meanwhile  you  look  after  her,  please.  And  oh, 
Mrs.  Hughes,"  she  called  back,  "I  shan't  want  any 
dinner.  I  had  a  heavy  tea  at  the  bazaar,"  she 
added  hurriedly,  and  as  if  resentful  of  having  to 
make  any  explanation. 


FIDELITY  353 

Alone,  she  took  off  her  hat,  pushed  back  her  hair 
as  if  it  oppressed  her,  then  sank  into  a  low,  luxur 
ious  chair  and,  eyes  closed,  pressed  her  fingers 
over  her  temples  as  if  to  command  quiet  within. 
But  after  a  moment  she  impatiently  got  up  and 
went  over  to  her  dressing-table  and  sat  looking 
into  the  mirror. 

The  thing  that  had  started  her  afternoon  wrong 
was  that  a  friend  of  her  girlhood,  whom  she  had 
not  seen  for  about  thirteen  years,  had  appeared 
unexpectedly  at  her  table,  startling  her  and  then 
laughing  at  her  confusion.  She  had  not  known 
that  Stella  Cutting  was  in  town ;  to  be  confronted 
that  way  with  some  one  out  of  the  past  had  been 
unnerving,  and  then  she  had  been  furious  with  her 
self  for  not  being  able  more  easily  to  regain  com 
posure.  People  around  her  had  seen;  later  she 
saw  them  looking  at  her  strangely,  covertly  inter 
ested  when  she  spoke  in  that  sharp  way  to  Mildred 
"Woodbury  because  she  had  tossed  things  about. 
She  had  been  disturbed,  for  one  thing,  at  finding 
Mildred  Woodbury  at  her  table. 

She  was  looking  in  the  glass  now  because  Stella 
Cutting  had  been  one  of  her  bridesmaids.  She  was 
not  able  to  put  down  a  miserable  desire  to  try  to 
see  just  what  changes  Stella  had  found. 

The  dissatisfaction  in  her  face  deepened  with 
her  scrutiny  of  it.  Doubtless  Stella  was  that  very 
minute  talking  of  how  pitifully  Marion  Averley 
had  changed;  how  her  color  used  to  be  clear  and 


354  FIDELITY 

even,  features  firmly  molded,  eyes  bright.  She 
herself  remembered  how  she  had  looked  the  night 
Stella  Cutting  was  her  bridesmaid.  And  now  her 
color  was  muddy  and  there  were  crow's  feet  about 
her  eyes  and  deep  lines  from  her  nostrils  to  the 
corners  of  her  mouth. 

Stella  Cutting  looked  older  herself,  very  con 
siderably  older*.  But  it  was  a  different  way  of 
looking  older.  She  had  grown  stout  and  her  face 
was  too  full.  But  she  did  not  look  pulled  at  like 
this.  As  she  talked  of  her  children  hers  was  the 
face  of  a  woman  normally,  contentedly  growing 
older.  The  woman  sitting  before  the  mirror  bit 
terly  turned  away  now  from  that  reflection  of  dis 
satisfaction  with  emptiness. 

It  was  that  boy  had  done  it !  she  thought  with  a 
new  rise  of  resentment.  She  had  been  able  to  go 
along  very  evenly  until  he  impertinently  came  into 
her  house  and  rudely  and  stupidly  broke  through 
the  things  she  had  carefully  builded  up  around  her 
self.  Ever  since  he  had  plunged  into  things  even 
she  herself  had  been  careful  not  to  break  into, 
there  had  been  this  inner  turmoil  that  was  giving 
her  the  look  of  an  old  woman.  If  Stella  Cutting 
had  come  just  a  few  months  earlier  she  could  not 
have  had  so  much  to  say  about  how  terribly 
Marion  Averley  had  changed. 

Why  was  she  so  absurd  as  to  let  herself  be  up 
set?  she  angrily  asked  of  herself,  beginning  to 
unfasten  the  dress  she  was  wearing  that  she  might 


FIDELITY  355 

get  into  something  loose  and  try  to  relax.  A  hook 
caught  in  some  lace  and  in  her  vexation  at  not  be 
ing  able  at  once  to  unfasten  it  she  gave  it  a  jerk 
that  tore  the  lace.  She  bit  her  lips  and  could  have 
cried.  Those  were  the  things  she  did  these  days ! 
— since  that  boy  came  and  blunderingly  broke  into 
guarded  places. 

She  sat  in  a  low,  deep  chair  before  the  open  fire 
that  burned  in  the  sitting-room  adjoining  her  bed 
room.  It  was  the  room  that  had  been  her  hus 
band's.  After  he  went  away  she  took  it  for  an  up 
stairs  sitting-room — a  part  of  her  program  of  un 
concern.  As  she  sank  down  into  the  gracious 
chair  she  told  herself  that  she  would  rest  for  that 
evening,  not  think  about  things.  But  not  to  think 
about  things  was  impossible  that  night.  Stella 
Cutting  had  brought  old  things  near  and  made 
them  newly  real :  her  girlhood,  her  falling  in  love 
with  Stuart  Williams,  her  wedding.  Those 
reminiscences  caught  her  and  swept  her  on  to 
other  things.  She  thought  of  her  marriage; 
thought  of  things  that,  ever  since  that  boy  came 
and  made  her  know  how  insecure  she  really  was  in 
the  defences  she  had  put  up  for  herself,  it  had  been 
a  struggle  to  keep  away  from. 

She  had  not  done  much  thinking — probing — as 
to  why  it  was  her  marriage  had  failed.  That  was 
another  one  of  the  things  her  pride  shut  her  out 
from.  When  it  failed  she  turned  from  it,  clothed 
in  pride,  never  naked  before  the  truth.  There  was 


356  FIDELITY 

something  relaxing  in  just  letting  down  the  bar 
riers,  barriers  which  had  recently  been  so  shaken 
that  she  was  fretted  with  trying  to  hold  them  up. 

She  wondered  why  Stella  Cutting's  marriage 
had  succeeded  and  hers  had  failed.  The  old  an 
swer  that  her  marriage  had  failed  because  her  hus 
band  was  unfaithful  to  her — answer  that  used  al 
ways  to  leave  her  newly  fortified,  did  not  satisfy 
tonight.  She  pushed  on  through  that.  There  was 
a  curious  emotional  satisfaction  in  thus  disobey 
ing  herself  by  rushing  into  the  denied  places  of 
self-examination.  She  was  stirred  by  what  she 
was  doing. 

Her  long  holding  back  from  this  very  thing  was 
part  of  that  same  instinct  for  restraint,  what  she 
had  been  pleased  to  think  of  as  fastidiousness,  that 
had  always  held  her  back  in  love.  It  was  alien  to 
her  to  let  herself  go ;  she  had  an  instinct  that  held 
her  away  from  certain  things — from  the  things 
themselves  and  from  free  thinking  about  them. 
What  she  was  doing  now  charged  her  with  excite 
ment. 

She  was  wondering  about  herself  and  the  man 
who  was  still  legally  her  husband.  She  was  think 
ing  of  how  different  they  were  in  the  things  of 
love ;  how  he  gave  and  wanted  giving,  while  her  in 
stinct  had  always  been  to  hold  herself  a  little  apart. 
There  was  something  that  displeased  her  in  aban 
donment  to  feeling.  She  did  not  like  herself 
when  she  fully  gave.  There  had  been  something 


FIDELITY  357 

in  her,  some  holding  back,  that  passionate  love  out 
raged.  Intense  demonstration  was  indelicate  to 
her;  she  was  that  way,  she  had  not  been  able  to 
help  it.  She  loved  in  what  she  thought  of  as  her 
own  fastidious  way.  Passion  violated  something 
in  her.  Falling  in  love  had  made  her  happy,  but 
with  her  love  had  never  been  able  to  sweep  down 
the  reserves,  and  so  things  which  love  should  have 
made  beautiful  had  remained  for  her  ugly  facts  of 
life  that  she  had  an  instinct  to  hold  herself  away 
from.  What  she  felt  she  did  not  like  herself  for 
feeling.  And  so  their  marriage  had  been  less 
union  than  manoeuvering. 

She  supposed  she  had,  to  be  very  blunt,  starved 
Stuart's  love.  For  he  wanted  much  love,  a  full 
and  intense  love  life.  He  was  passionate  and 
demonstrative.  He  gave  and  wanted,  perhaps 
needed,  much  giving.  He  did  not  understand  that 
constant  holding  back.  For  him  the  beauty  of 
love  was  in  the  expression  of  it.  She  supposed,  in 
this  curious  self-indulgence  of  facing  things  to 
night,  that  it  had  been  he  who  was  normal ;  she  had 
memories  of  many  times  when  she  had  puzzled  and 
disappointed  and  hurt  him. 

And  so  when  Gertrude  Freemont — an  old  school 
friend  of  hers,  a  warm-natured  Southern  girl — 
came  to  visit  her,  Stuart  turned  away  from  things 
grudging  and  often  chill  to  Gertrude's  playfulness 
and  sunniness  and  warmth.  There  was  a  curious 
shock  to  her  tonight  when  she  found  herself  actu- 


358  FIDELITY 

ally  thinking  that  perhaps  it  was  not  much  to  be 
wondered  at.  He  was  like  that.  She  had  not 
made  him  over  to  be  like  her. 

At  first  he  had  found  Gertrude  enlivening,  and 
from  a  flirtation  it  went  to  one  of  those  passages 
of  passion  between  a  man  and  a  woman,  a  thing 
that  flames  up  and  then  dies  away,  in  a  measure  a 
matter  of  circumstance.  That  was  the  way  he 
tried  to  explain  it  to  her  when,  just  as  Gertrude 
was  leaving,  she  came  to  know — even  in  this  pres 
ent  abandonment  to  thinking  she  went  hurriedly 
past  the  shock  of  that  terrible  sordid  night  of 
" finding  out."  Stuart  had  weakly  and  appeal- 
ingly  said  that  he  hadn't  been  able  to  help  it,  that 
he  was  sorry — that  it  was  all  over. 

But  with  it  their  marriage  was  all  over.  She 
told  him  so  then — told  him  quite  calmly,  it  would 
seem  serenely;  went  on  telling  him  so  through 
those  first  days  of  his  unhappiness  and  persist 
ence.  She  was  always  quite  unperturbed  in  telling 
him  so.  Politely,  almost  pleasantly,  she  would  tell 
him  that  she  would  never  be  his  wife  again. 

She  never  was.  She  had  known  very  certainly 
from  the  first  that  she  never  would  be.  Tonight 
she  probed  into  that  too — why  she  had  been  so 
sure,  why  she  had  never  wavered.  It  was  a  more 
inner  thing  than  just  jealousy,  resentment,  hurt, 
revenge — though  all  those  things  were  there  too. 
But  those  were  things  that  might  have  broken 
down,  and  this  was  not  a  thing  that  would  break 


FIDELITY  359 

down.  It  was  more  particularly  temperamental 
than  any  of  those  things.  It  was  that  thing  in 
her  which  had  always  held  her  back  from  giving. 
She  had  given — and  then  her  giving  had  been  out 
raged!  Even  now  she  burned  in  the  thought  of 
that.  He  had  called  out  a  thing  in  her  that  she  had 
all  along — just  because  she  was  as  she  was — re 
sented  having  had  called  out.  And  then  he  had 
flouted  it.  Even  after  all  those  years  there  was 
tonight  that  old  prickling  of  her  scalp  in  thinking 
of  it.  The  things  she  might  have  said — of  its  be 
ing  her  own  friend,  in  her  own  house — she  did  not 
much  dwell  upon,  even  to  herself.  It  was  a  more 
inner  injury  than  that.  Something  in  her  that  was 
curiously  against  her  had  been  called  to  life  by  him 
— and  then  he  had  outraged  what  she  had  all  along 
resented  his  finding  in  her.  To  give  at  all  had 
been  so  tremendous  a  thing — then  to  have  it  lightly 
held !  It  outraged  something  that  was  simply  out 
side  the  sphere  of  things  forgivable. 

And  that  outraged  thing  had  its  own  satisfac 
tion.  What  he  had  called  to  life  in  her  and  then, 
as  it  seemed,  left  there  unwanted,  what  he  had 
made  in  her  that  was  not  herself — then  left  her 
with,  became  something  else,  something  that  made 
her  life.  From  the  first  until  now — or  at  any  rate 
until  two  months  ago  when  that  boy  came  and 
forced  her  to  look  at  herself — the  thing  in  her  that 
had  been  outraged  became  something  that  took  the 
place  of  love,  that  was  as  the  other  pole  of  love, 


360  FIDELITY 

something  that  yielded  a  satisfaction  of  its  own,  a 
satisfaction  intense  as  the  things  of  love  are  in 
tense,  but  cold,  ordered,  certain.  It  was  the  power 
to  hurt;  the  power  to  bring  pain  by  simply  doing 
nothing.  It  was  not  tempestuously  done;  it  had 
none  of  the  uncertainty  of  passionate  feeling;  it 
had  the  satisfaction  of  power  without  effort,  of 
disturbing  and  remaining  undisturbed,  of  hurting 
and  giving  no  sign.  It  was  the  revenge  of  what 
was  deeply  herself  for  calling  her  out  from  her 
self,  for  not  wanting  what  was  found  in  her  that 
was  not  herself. 

Stuart  wanted  her  again;  terribly  wanted  her, 
more  than  ever  wanted  her.  He  loved  and  so 
could  be  hurt.  He  needed  love  and  so  could  be 
given  pain.  He  thought  she  would  give  in;  she 
knew  that  she  would  not.  There  was  power  in 
that  knowledge.  And  so  she  watched  him  suffer 
and  herself  gained  new  poise.  She  did  not  con 
sider  how  it  was  a  sorry  thing  to  fill  her  life  with. 
When,  that  night  that  was  like  being  struck  by 
lightning,  she  came  to  know  that  the  man  to  whom 
she  had  given — she — had  turned  from  her  to  an 
other  woman  it  was  as  if  she  was  then  and  there 
sealed  in.  She  would  never  let  herself  leave  again. 
Outraged  pride  blocked  every  path  out  from  self. 
She  was  shut  in  with  her  power  to  inflict  pain. 
That  was  all  she  had.  And  then  that  boy  came 
and  made  her  look  at  herself  and  know  that  she 
was  poor !  That  was  why  Stella  Cutting  could  be 


FIDELITY  361 

talking  of  how  Marion  Averley  had  "broken." 
They  were  talking  about  it,  of  course ;  about  her 
and  Kuth  Holland  and  her  husband.  Her  hus 
band,  she  thought  insistently,  but  without  getting 
the  accustomed  satisfaction  from  the  thought. 
Miserably  she  wondered  just  what  they  were  say 
ing  ;  she  flinched  in  the  thought  of  their  talk  about 
her  hurt,  her  loneliness.  And  then  she  felt  a  little 
as  if  she  could  cry.  She  had  wondered  if  she  had 
anybody's  real  pity. 

That  thought  of  their  talking  of  it  opened  it  to 
her,  drew  her  to  it.  She  thought  of  Euth  Holland, 
gave  up  the  worn  pretense  of  disinterest  and  let 
herself  go  in  thinking  of  her. 

The  first  feeling  she  had  had  when  she  sus 
pected  that  her  husband  was  drawn  to  that  girl, 
Ruth  Holland,  was  one  of  chagrin,  a  further  hurt 
to  pride.  For  her  power  to  give  pain  would  be 
cut  off.  Once  she  saw  the  girl's  face  light  as 
Stuart  went  up  to  her  for  a  dance.  She  knew  then 
that  the  man  who  had  that  girl's  love  could  not  be 
hurt  in  the  way  she  had  been  hurting.  At  first  she 
was  not  so  much  jealous  as  strangely  desolated. 
And  then  as  time  went  on  and  in  those  little  ways 
that  can  make  things  known  to  those  made  acute 
through  unhappiness  she  came  to  know  that  her 
husband  cared  for  this  girl  and  had  her  love,  anger 
at  having  been  again  stripped,  again  left  there  out 
raged,  made  her  seize  upon  the  only  power  left, 
that  more  sordid,  more  commonplace  kind  of 


362  FIDELITY 

power.  She  could  no  longer  hurt  by  withholding 
herself;  she  could  only  hurt  by  standing  in  the 
way.  Rage  at  the  humiliation  of  being  reduced  to 
that  fastened  her1  to  it  with  a  hold  not  to  be  let  go. 
All  else  was  taken  from  her  and  she  was  left  with 
just  that.  Somehow  she  reduced  herself  to  it ;  she 
became  of  the  quality  of  it. 

Pride,  or  rather  self-valuation,  incapacity  for 
self-depreciation,  had  never  let  her  be  honest  with 
herself.  As  there  were  barriers  shutting  the 
world  out  from  her  hurt  and  humiliation,  so  too 
were  there  barriers  shutting  herself  out.  She  did 
not  acknowledge  pain,  loneliness,  for  that  meant 
admission  that  she  could  not  have  what  she  would 
have.  She  thought  of  it  as  withdrawal,  dignified 
withdrawal  from  one  not  fit.  She  had  always  tried 
to  feel  that  her  only  humiliation  was  in  having 
given  to  one  not  worth  her — one  lesser. 

But  in  this  reckless  and  curiously  exciting  mood 
of  honesty  tonight  she  got  some  idea  of  how  great 
the  real  hurt  had  been.  She  knew  now  that  when 
she  came  to  know — to  feel  in  a  way  that  was  know 
ing — that  her  husband  loved  Ruth  Holland  she  suf 
fered  something  much  more  than  hurt  to  pride. 
It  was  pride  that  would  not  let  her  look  at  herself 
and  see  how  she  was  hurt.  And  pride  would  not 
let  her  say  one  word,  make  one  effort.  It  was 
simply  not  in  her  to  bring  herself  to  try  to  have 
love  given  her.  And  so  she  was  left  with  the  sor 
did  satisfaction  of  the  hurt  she  dealt  in  just  being. 


FIDELITY  363 

That  became  her  reason  for  existence — the  ugly 
reason  for  her  barren  existence.  She  lived  alone 
with  it  for  so  long  that  she  came  to  be  of  it.  Her 
spirit  seemed  empty  of  all  else.  It  had  kept  her 
from  everything ;  it  had  kept  her  from  herself. 

But  now  tonight  she  could  strangely  get  to  her 
self,  and  now  she  knew  that  far  from  Euth  Holland 
not  mattering  her  whole  being  had  from  the  first 
been  steeped  in  hatred  of  her.  Her  jealousy  had 
been  of  a  freezing  quality ;  it  had  even  frozen  her 
power  to  know  about  herself.  When,  after  one 
little  thing  and  then  another  had  let  her  know 
there  was  love  between  her  husband  and  this  girl, 
to  go  to  places  where  Kuth  Holland  was  would 
make  her  numb — that  was  the  way  it  was  with  her. 
Once  in  going  somewhere — a  part  of  that  hideous 
doing  things  together  which  she  kept  up  because 
it  was  one  way  of  showing  she  was  there,  would 
continue  to  be  there — she  and  Stuart  drove  past 
the  Hollands',  and  this  girl  was  out  in  the  yard, 
romping  with  her  dog,  tusseling  with  him  like  a  lit 
tle  girl.  She  looked  up,  flushed,  tumbled,  pant 
ing,  saw  them,  tried  to  straighten  her  hair,  laughed 
in  confusion  and  retreated.  Stuart  had  raised  his 
hat  to  her,  trying  to  look  nothing  more  than  dis 
creetly  amused.  But  a  little  later  after  she — his 
wife — had  been  looking  from  the  other  window  as 
if  not  at  all  concerned  she  turned  her  head  and 
saw  his  face  in  the  mirror  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  carriage.  He  had  forgotten  her ;  she  was  tak- 


364  FIDELITY 

ing  him  unawares.  Up  to  that  time  she  had  not 
been  sure — at  least  not  sure  of  its  meaning  much. 
But  when  she  saw  that  tender  little  smile  playing 
about  his  mouth  she  knew  it  was  true  that  her 
power  to  hurt  him  had  reduced  itself  to  being  in 
his  way.  That  she  should  be  reduced  to  that  made 
her  feeling  about  it  as  ugly  as  the  thing  itself. 

She  did  not  sleep  that  night — after  seeing  Euth 
Holland  romping  with  her  dog.  She  had  cried — 
and  was  furious  that  she  should  cry,  that  it  could 
make  her  cry.  And  furious  at  herself  because  of 
the  feeling  she  had — a  strange  stir  of  passion,  a 
wave  of  that  feeling  which  had  seemed  to  her  un 
lovely  even  when  it  was  desired  and  that  it  was 
unbearably  humiliating  to  feel  unwanted.  It  was 
in  this  girl  he  wanted  those  things  now;  that  girl 
who  could  let  herself  go,  whom  life  rioted  in,  who 
doubtless  could  abandon  herself  to  love  as  she 
could  in  romping  with  her  dog.  It  tortured  her  to 
think  of  the  girl's  flushed,  glowing  face — panting 
there,  hair  tumbled.  She  cringed  in  the  thought 
of  how  perhaps  what  she  had  given  was  measured 
by  what  this  girl  could  give. 

As  time  went  on  she  knew  that  her  husband  was 
more  happy  than  he  had  ever  been  before — and  in 
creasingly  unhappy.  Her  torture  in  the  thought 
of  his  happiness  made  her  wrest  the  last  drop  of 
satisfaction  she  could  from  the  knowledge  that  she 
could  continue  the  unhappiness.  Sometimes  he 
would  come  home  and  she  would  know  he  had  been 


FIDELITY  365 

with  this  girl,  know  it  as  if  he  had  shouted  it  at 
her — it  fairly  breathed  from  him.  To  feel  that 
happiness  near  would  have  maddened  her  had  she 
not  been  able  to  feel  that  her  very  being  there 
dealt  unhappiness.  It  was  a  wretched  thing  to 
live  with.  Beauty  had  not  come  into  her  life;  it 
would  not  come  where  that  was. 

And  then  she  came  to  know  that  they  were  being 
cornered.  She — knowing — saw  misery  as  well  as 
love  in  the  girl's  eyes — a  hunted  look.  Her  hus 
band  grew  terribly  nervous,  irritable,  like  one 
trapped.  It  was  hurting  his  business;  it  was 
breaking  down  his  health.  Not  until  afterward 
did  she  know  that  there  was  also  a  disease  break 
ing  down  his  health.  She  did  not  know  what  dif 
ference  it  might  have  made  had  she  known  that. 
By  that  time  she  had  sunk  pretty  deep  into  lust  for 
hurting,  into  hating. 

She  saw  that  this  love  was  going  to  wreck  his 
life.  His  happiness  was  going  to  break  him.  If 
the  world  came  to  know  it  would  be  known  that  her 
husband  did  not  want  her,  that  he  wanted  some 
one  else.  She  smarted  under  that — and  so  forti 
fied  herself  the  stronger  in  an  appearance  of  un 
concern.  She  could  better  bear  exposure  of  his 
uncaringness  for  her  than  let  him  suspect  that  he 
could  hurt  her.  And  they  would  be  hurt!  If  it 
became  known  it  would  wreck  life  for  them  both. 
The  town  would  know  then  about  Euth  Holland — 
that  wanton  who  looked  so  spiritual !  They  would 


366  FIDELITY 

know  then  what  the  girl  they  had  made  so  much 
of  really  was !  She  would  not  any  longer  have  to 
listen  to  that  talk  of  Ruth  Holland  as  so  sweet,  so 
fine! 

And  so  she  waited;  sure  that  it  would  come, 
would  come  without  her  having  given  any  sign, 
without  her  having  been  moved  from  her  refuge  of 
unconcern — she  who  had  given  and  not  been 
wanted!  That  week  before  Edith  Lawrence's 
wedding  she  knew  that  it  was  coming,  that  some 
thing  was  happening.  Stuart  looked  like  a  crea 
ture  driven  into  a  corner.  And  he  looked  sick;  he 
seemed  to  have  lost  hold  on  himself.  Once  as  she 
was  passing  the  door  of  his  room  it  blew  a  little 
open  and  she  saw  him  sitting  on  the  bed,  face 
buried  in  his  hands.  After  she  passed  the  door 
she  halted — but  went  on.  She  heard  him  moving 
around  in  the  night;  once  she  heard  him  groan. 
Instinctively  she  had  sat  up  in  bed,  but  had  lain 
down  again — remembering,  remembering  that  he 
was  groaning  because  he  did  not  want  her,  be 
cause  she  was  in  the  way  of  the  woman  he  wanted. 

She  saw  in  those  days,  that  week  before  Edith 
Lawrence's  wedding,  that  he  was  trying  to  say 
something  to  her  and  could  not,  that  he  was 
wretched  in  his  fruitless  attempts  to  say  it.  He 
would  come  where  she  was,  sit  there  white,  miser 
able,  dogged,  then  go  away  after  having  said  only 
some  trivial  thing.  Once — she  was  always  quite 


FIDELITY  367 

cool,  unperturbed,  through  those  attempts  of  his — 
he  had  passionately  cried  out,  "  You  're  pretty  su 
perior,  aren't  you,  Marion!  Pretty  damned 
serene !"  It  was  a  cry  of  desperation,  a  cry  from 
unbearable  pain,  but  she  gave  no  sign.  Like  steel 
round  her  heart  was  that  feeling  that  he  was  pay 
ing  now. 

After  that  outburst  he  did  not  try  to  talk  to  her ; 
that  was  the  last  night  he  was  at  home.  He  came 
home  at  noon  next  day  and  said  he  was  going  away 
on  a  business  trip.  She  heard  him  packing  in  his 
room.  She  knew — felt  sure — that  it  was  some 
thing  more  than  a  business  trip.  She  felt  sure 
that  he  was  leaving.  And  then  she  wanted  to  go 
to  him  and  say  something,  whether  reproaches  or 
entreaties  she  did  not  know ;  listened  to  him  mov 
ing  around  in  there,  wanted  to  go  and  say  some 
thing  and  could  not ;  could  only  sit  there  listening, 
hearing  every  smallest  sound.  She  heard  him 
speak  a  surly  word  to  a  servant  in  the  hall.  He 
never  spoke  that  way  to  the  servants.  When  he 
shut  the  front  door  she  knew  that  he  would  not 
open  it  again.  She  got  to  the  window  and  saw 
him  before  he  passed  from  sight — carrying  his 
bag,  head  bent,  stooped.  He  was  broken,  and  he 
was  going  away.  She  knew  it. 

Even  tonight  she  could  not  let  herself  think 
much  about  that  afternoon,  the  portentous  empti 
ness,  the  strangeness  of  the  house;  going  into  his 


368  FIDELITY 

room  to  see  what  lie  had  taken,  in  there  being  tied 
up  as  with  panic,  sinking  down  on  his  bed  and  un 
able  to  move  for  a  long  time. 

She  had  forced  herself  to  go  to  Edith  Law 
rence  's  wedding.  And  she  knew  by  Ruth  Hol 
land's  face  that  it  was  true  something  was  happen 
ing,  knew  it  by  the  girl's  face  as  she  walked  down 
the  aisle  after  attending  her  friend  at  the  altar, 
knew  it  by  her  much  laughter,  by  what  was  not  in 
the  laughter.  Once  during  the  evening  she  saw 
Edith  put  her  arm  around  Euth  Holland  and  at 
the  girl's  face  then  she  knew  with  certainty,  did 
not  need  the  letter  that  came  from  Stuart  next  day. 
She  had  the  picture  of  Ruth  Holland  now  as  she 
was  that  last  night,  in  that  filmy  dress  of  pale  yel 
low  that  made  her  look  so  delicate.  She  was 
helped  through  that  evening  by  the  thought  that  if 
she  was  going  to  be  publicly  humiliated  Ruth  Hol 
land  would  be  publicly  disgraced.  She  would  have 
heard  the  last  about  that  fine,  delicate  quality — 
about  sweetness  and  luminousness !  They  would 
know,  finally,  that  she  was  not  those  things  she 
looked. 

And  after  it  happened  the  fact  that  they  did 
know  it  helped  her  to  go  on.  She  went  right  on, 
almost  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  She  would 
not  let  herself  go  away  because  then  they  would 
say  she  went  away  because  she  could  not  bear  it, 
because  she  did  not  want  them  to  see.  She  must 
stay  and  show  them  that  there  was  nothing  to  see. 


FIDELITY  369 

Forcing  herself  to  do  that  so  occupied  her  as  to 
help  her  with  things  within.  She  could  not  let 
herself  feel  for  feeling  would  show  on  the  surface. 
Even  before  herself  she  had  kept  up  that  manner 
of  unconcern  and  had  come  to  be  influenced  by  her 
own  front. 

And  so  the  years  went  by  and  her  life  had  been 
made  by  that  going  on  in  apparent  unconcern,  and 
by  that  inner  feeling  that  she  was  hurting  them  by 
just  being  in  life.  It  was  not  a  lovely  reason  for 
being  in  life ;  she  had  not  known  what  a  poor  thing 
it  was  until  that  boy  came  and  forced  her  to  look  at 
herself  and  consider  how  little  she  had. 

She  rose  and  stood  looking  into  the  mirror  above 
the  fireplace.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  tell 
by  her  face  that  the  desire  to  do  harm  had  been  her 
reason  for  living. 

Several  hours  had  gone  by  while  she  sat  there 
given  over  to  old  things.  She  wished  she  had  a 
book,  something  absorbing,  something  to  take  her 
away  from  that  other  thinking  that  was  lying  in 
wait  for  her — those  thoughts  about  what  there  was 
for  her  to  live  with  in  the  years  still  to  be  lived. 
The  magazine  she  had  picked  up  could  not  get  any 
hold  on  her;  that  was  why,  though  she  had  made 
it  clear  she  did  not  want  to  be  disturbed,  there  was 
relief  in  her  voice  as  she  answered  the  tap  at  her 
door. 

She  frowned  a  little  though  at  sight  of  Mrs. 
Hughes  standing  there  deferential  but  visibly  ex- 


370  FIDELITY 

cited.  She  had  that  look  of  trying  not  to  intrude 
her  worthiness  as  she  said:  "Excuse  me,  Mrs. 
Williams,  for  disturbing  you,  but  there  is  some 
thing  I  thought  you  ought  to  know."  In  answer 
to  the  not  very  cordial  look  of  inquiry  she  went  on, 
"It's  about  Lily;  she  says  she  won't  have  a  doctor, 
but — she  needs  one. ' ' 

There  was  something  in  her  manner,  something 
excited  and  yet  grim,  that  Mrs.  Williams  did  not 
understand.  But  then  she  did  not  much  trouble 
herself  to  understand  Mrs.  Hughes,  she  was  al 
ways  appearing  to  see  some  hidden  significance  in 
things.  "I'll  go  up  and  see  her,"  she  said. 

After  the  visit  she  came  down  to  telephone  for 
her  doctor.  She  saw  that  the  girl  was  really  ill, 
and  she  had  concluded  from  her  strange  manner 
that  she  was  feverish.  Lily  protested  that  she 
wanted  to  be  let  alone,  that  she  would  be  all  right 
in  a  day  or  two;  but  she  looked  too  ill  for  those 
protestations  to  be  respected. 

She  telephoned  for  her  own  doctor  only  to  learn 
that  he  was  out  of  town.  Upon  calling  another 
physician's  house  she  was  told  that  he  had  the  grip 
and  could  not  go  out.  She  then  sat  for  some  min 
utes  in  front  of  the  'phone  before  she  looked  up  a 
number  in  the  book  and  called  Dr.  Deane  Frank 
lin.  When  she  rose  after  doing  that  she  felt  as  if 
her  knees  were  likely  to  give  way.  The  thought 
of  his  coming  into  her  house,  coming  just  when  she 
had  been  living  through  old  things,  was  unnerv- 


FIDELITY  371 

ing.  But  she  was  really  worried  about  the  girl 
and  knew  no  one  else  to  call  whom  she  could  trust. 

When  he  came  she  was  grateful  to  him  for  his 
professional  manner  which  seemed  to  take  no  ac 
count  of  personal  things,  to  have  no  personal 
memory.  "I'd  like  to  see  you  when  you  come 
down,  doctor,"  she  said  as  Mrs.  Hughes  was  tak 
ing  him  to  the  maid's  room  on  the  third  floor. 

She  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  door  of  her  up 
stairs  sitting-room.  He  stepped  in  and  then  stood 
hesitatingly  there.  He  too  had  a  queer  grim  look, 
she  thought. 

"And  what  is  the  trouble?"  she  asked. 

He  gave  her  a  strange  sideways  glance  and 
snapped  shut  a  pocket  of  the  bag  he  carried.  Then 
he  said,  brusquely:  "It's  a  miscarriage." 

She  felt  the  blood  surging  into  her  face.  She 
had  stepped  a  little  back  from  him.  "Why — I 
don't  see  how  that's  possible,"  she  faltered. 

He  smiled  a  little  and  she  had  a  feeling  that  he 
took  a  satisfaction  in  saying  to  her,  grimly,  "Oh, 
it's  possible,  all  right." 

She  colored  anew.  She  resented  his  manner  and 
that  made  her  collect  herself  and  ask  with  dignity 
what  was  the  best  thing  to  do. 

"I  presume  we'd  better  take  her  to  the  hos 
pital,  ' '  he  said  in  that  short  way.  * t  She 's  been — 
horribly  treated.  She 's  going  to  need  attention — 
and  doubtless  it  would  be  disagreeable  to  have  her 
here." 


372  FIDELITY 

That  too  she  suspected  him  of  finding  a  satisfac 
tion  in  saying.  She  made  a  curt  inquiry  as  to 
whether  the  girl  would  be  all  right  there  for  the 
night.  He  said  yes  and  left  saying  he  would  be 
back  in  the  morning. 

She  escaped  Mrs.  Hughes — whom  now  she  un 
derstood.  She  did  not  go  up  again  to  see  Lily; 
she  could  not  do  that  then.  She  was  angry  with 
herself  for  being  unnerved.  She  told  herself  that 
at  any  other  time  she  would  have  been  able  to  deal 
sensibly  with  such  a  situation.  But  coming  just 
when  things  were  all  opened  up  like  that — old  feel 
ing  fresh — and  coming  from  Deane  Franklin! 
She  would  be  quite  impersonal,  rational,  in  the 
morning.  But  for  a  long  time  she  could  not  go  to 
sleep.  Something  had  intruded  into  her  guarded 
places.  And  the  things  of  life  from  which  she  had 
withdrawn  were  here — in  her  house.  It  affected 
her  physically,  almost  made  her  sick — this  prox 
imity  of  the  things  she  had  shut  out  of  her  life.  It 
was  invasion. 

And  she  thought  about  Lily.  She  tried  not  to, 
but  coulcl  not  help  wondering  about  her.  She  won 
dered  how  this  had  happened — what  the  girl  was 
feeling.  Was  there  someone  she  loved?  She  lay 
there  thinking  of  how,  just  recently,  this  girl  who 
lived  in  her  house  had  been  going  through  those 
things.  It  made  her  know  that  the  things  of  life 
were  all  the  time  around  one.  There  was  some 
thing  singularly  disturbing  in  the  thought. 


FIDELITY  373 

Next  morning  she  went  up  to  see  Lily.  She  told 
herself  it  was  only  common  decency  to  do  that,  her 
responsibility  to  a  person  in  her  house. 

As  she  opened  the  door  Lily  turned  her  head  and 
looked  at  her.  When  she  saw  who  it  was  her  eyes 
went  sullen,  defiant.  But  pain  was  in  them  too, 
and  with  all  the  rest  something  wistful.  As  she 
looked  at  the  girl  lying  there — in  trouble,  in  pain, 
she  could  see  Lily,  just  a  little  while  before,  laugh 
ing  and  singing  at  her  work.  Something  she  had 
not  felt  in  years,  that  she  had  felt  but  little  in  her 
whole  life,  stirred  in  her  heart. 

"Well,  Lily,"  she  said,  uncertainly  but  not  un 
kindly. 

The  girl's  eyes  were  down,  her  face  turned  a  lit 
tle  away.  But  she  could  see  that  her  chin  was 
quivering. 

"I'm  sorry  you  are  ill,"  Mrs.  Williams  mur 
mured,  and  then  gave  a  little  start  at  the  sound  of 
her  own  voice. 

The  girl  turned  her  head  and  stole  a  look.  A 
moment  later  there  were  tears  on  her  lashes. 

"We'll  have  to  get  you  well,"  said  Mrs.  Wil 
liams  in  a  practical,  cheerful  voice.  And  then  she 
abruptly  left  the  room.  Her  heart  was  beating  too 
fast. 

Mrs.  Hughes  lay  in  wait  for  her  as  she  came 
downstairs.  "May  I  speak  to  you,  Mrs.  Wil 
liams  ? ' '  she  asked  in  a  manner  at  once  deferential 
and  firm. 


374  FIDELITY 

4 *  She's  to  be  taken  away,  isn't  she?"  she  in 
quired  in  a  hard  voice. 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Williams  did  not  speak. 
She  looked  at  the  woman  before  her,  all  tightened 
tip  with  outraged  virtue.  And  then  she  heard  her 
self  saying:  "No,  I  think  it  will  be  better  for 
Lily  to  remain  at  home."  After  she  had  heard 
herself  say  it  she  had  that  feeling  that  her  knees 
were  about  to  give  way. 

For  an  instant  Mrs.  Hughes'  lips  shut  tight. 
Then, l '  Do  you  know  what 's  the  matter  with  her  1 ' ' 
she  demanded  in  that  sharp,  hard  voice. 

"Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Williams,  "I  know." 

"And  you  're  going  to  keep  such  a  person  in  your 
house?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  can't  expect  me  to  stay  in  your 
house ! ' '  flashed  the  woman  who  was  outraged. 

"As  you  like,  Mrs.  Hughes,"  was  the  answer. 

Mrs.  Hughes  moved  a  little  away,  plainly  dis 
comfited. 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  have  you  go,"  Mrs.  Wil 
liams  continued  courteously, ' i  but  of  course  that  is 
for  you  to  decide. ' ' 

"I'm  a  respectable  woman,"  she  muttered. 
"You  can't  expect  me  to  wait  on  a  person  like 
that!" 

1  '  You  needn  't  wait  on  her,  then, ' '  was  the  reply. 
"Until  the  nurse  comes,  I  will  wait  on  her  my 
self."  And  again  she  turned  abruptly  away. 


FIDELITY  375 

Once    more    her    heart    was    beating    too    fast. 

When  the  doctor  came  and  began  about  the  ar 
rangement  he  had  been  able  to  make  at  the  hos 
pital,  she  quietly  told  him  that,  if  it  would  be  as 
well,  she  would  rather  keep  Lily  at  home.  His 
startled  look  made  her  flush.  His  manner  with 
her  was  less  brusque  as  he  said  good-by.  She 
smiled  a  little  over  that  last  puzzled  glance  he  stole 
at  her. 

Then  she  went  back  to  Lily's  room.  She 
straightened  her  bed  for  her,  telling  her  that  in  a 
little  while  the  nurse  would  be  there  to  make  her 
really  comfortable.  She  bathed  the  girl's  hot  face 
and  hands.  She  got  her  a  cold  drink.  As  she  put 
her  hand  behind  her  head  to  raise  her  a  little  for 
that,  the  girl  murmured  brokenly:  "You're  so 
kind!" 

She  went  out  and  sat  in  an  adjoining  room,  to  be 
within  call.  And  as  she  sat  there  a  feeling  of 
strange  peace  stole  through  her.  It  was  as  if  she 
had  been  set  free,  as  if  something  that  had  chained 
her  for  years  had  fallen  away.  When  in  her  talk 
with  Mrs.  Hughes  she  became  that  other  woman, 
the  woman  on  the  other  side,  on  compassion's  side, 
something  just  fell  from  her.  When  that  poor  girl 
murmured,  "You're  so  kind!"  she  suddenly  knew 
that  she  must  have  something  more  from  life  than 
that  satisfaction  of  harming  those  who  had  hurt 
her.  When  she  washed  the  girl's  face  she  knew 
what  she  could  not  unknow.  She  had  served. 


376  FIDELITY 

She  could  not  find  the  old  satisfaction  in  working 
harm.  The  soft,  warm  thing  that  filled  her  heart 
with  that  cry,  "You're  so  kind!"  had  killed  for 
ever  the  old  cruel  satisfaction  in  being  in  the  way. 
She  felt  very  quiet  in  this  wonderful  new  libera 
tion.  She  began  shaping  life  as  something  more 
than  a  standing  in  the  way  of  others.  It  made 
life  seem  a  different  thing  just  to  think  of  it  as 
something  other  than  that.  And  suddenly  she 
knew  that  she  did  not  hate  Ruth  Holland  any  more ; 
that  she  did  not  even  hate  the  man  who  had  been 
her  husband.  Hating  had  worn  itself  out;  it  fell 
from  her,  a  thing  outlived.  It  was  wonderful  to 
have  it  gone.  For  a  long  time  she  sat  there  very 
quiet  in  the  wonder  of  that  peace  of  knowing  that 
she  was  free — freed  of  the  long  hideous  servitude 
of  hating,  freed  of  wanting  to  harm.  It  made  life 
new  and  sweet.  She  wanted  something  from  life. 
She  must  have  more  of  that  gentle  sweetness  that 
warmed  her  heart  when  Lily  murmured,  "You're 
so  kind!" 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-ONE 

Ruth  Holland  stood  at  the  window  looking  out 
at  Colorado  in  January.  The  wide  valley  was 
buried  under  snow.  It  was  late  afternoon  and  the 
sun  was  passing  behind  the  western  mountains. 
From  the  window  where  she  stood  she  could  not 
see  the  western  mountains,  but  the  sunset  colors 
had  been  thrown  over  to  the  eastern  range,  some 
fifty  miles  away.  When  she  first  came  there,  five 
years  before,  it  had  seemed  strange  to  find  the 
east  lighted  at  sunset,  more  luminous  than  the 
west.  The  eastern  range  was  a  mighty  one.  Now 
there  was  snow  down  to  its  feet  and  there  was  no 
warmth  in  the  colors  that  lighted  it.  They  only 
seemed  to  reveal  that  the  mountains  were  frozen. 
It  would  not  have  seemed  possible  for  red — those 
mountains  had  been  named  Sangre  de  Cristo 
because  they  went  red  at  sunset — to  be  so  daz 
zling  cold.  The  lighted  snow  brought  out  the  con 
tour  of  the  mountains.  They  were  wonderfully 
beautiful  so,  but  the  woman  looking  out  at  them 
was  not  thinking  of  them  as  beautiful.  She  was 
thinking  of  them  as  monuments  of  coldness.  To 
her  it  was  as  if  they  had  locked  that  valley  in  to 
merciless  cold. 

But  it  was  not  the  sunset  colors  that  really 

377 


378  FIDELITY 

marked  coming  night  for  her.  All  through  that 
winter  something  else  had  marked  night,  some 
thing  she  tried  to  keep  from  looking  out  at,  but 
which  she  was  not  able  to  hold  away  from.  She 
was  looking  at  it  now,  looking  off  into  the  adjoin 
ing  field  where  the  sheep  were  huddling  for  the 
night. 

They  had  begun  their  huddling  some  time  be 
fore.  With  the  first  dimming  of  the  light,  the 
first  wave  of  new  cold  that  meant  coming  night,  a 
few  of  them  would  get  together;  others  would 
gather  around  them,  then  more  and  more.  Now 
there  was  the  struggle  not  to  be  left  on  the  outside. 
The  outer  ones  were  pushing  toward  the  center; 
they  knew  by  other  nights  that  this  night  would  be 
frigid,  that  they  could  only  keep  alive  by  that 
warmth  they  could  get  from  one  another.  Yet 
there  were  always  some  that  must  make  that  outer 
rim  of  the  big  circle,  must  be  left  there  to  the  un 
broken  cold.  She  watched  them;  it  had  become 
a  terrible  thing  for  her  to  see,  but  she  could  not 
keep  from  looking.  Many  of  those  unprotected 
sheep  had  died  that  bitter  winter ;  others  would  die 
before  spring  came.  It  was  a  cruel  country,  a 
country  of  cold. 

That  was  their  flock  of  sheep.  They  had  been 
driven  there  the  summer  before  from  the  lambing 
grounds  in  the  mountains.  The  day  they  got  there 
the  lambs  were  exhausted  from  the  long  journey. 
One  of  them  had  dropped  before  the  house  and 


FIDELITY  379 

died  right  there  beside  the  field  it  had  come  the 
long  way  to  gain.  Her  efforts  to  revive  it  were 
useless ;  the  little  thing  was  worn  out.  They  were 
all  of  them  close  to  worn  out.  And  now  they  had 
the  winter  to  fight;  night  after  night  she  watched 
them  huddling  there,  the  big  pitiful  mass  of  them 
out  in  the  bitter  cold.  *'It  was  the  way  of  the  coun 
try  to  leave  them  so ;  the  only  way,  the  sheep  men 
said,  that  sheep  could  be  made  to  pay.  They  esti 
mated  that  the  loss  by  freezing  was  small  com 
pared  with  what  would  be  the  cost  of  shelter  for 
droves  that  ran  into  thousands,  into  tens  of  thou 
sands. 

Ruth  would  wake  at  night  and  think  of  them 
huddled  out  there,  would  lie  thinking  of  them  as 
she  drew  the  covers  around  herself,  think  of  them 
when  the  wind  drove  against  the  house,  and  often, 
as  tonight,  when  it  was  every  instant  growing 
colder,  she  wondered  if  what  was  before  them  filled 
them  with  terror.  Sometimes  she  could  not  keep 
away  and  went  nearer  and  looked  at  them;  they 
were  unbearably  pitiful  to  her,  their  necks 
wrapped  around  each  other's  necks,  trying  to  get 
from  one  another  the  only  warmth  there  was  for 
them,  so  helpless,  so  patient,  they,  play-loving 
creatures,  gentle  things,  bearing  these  lives  that 
men  might  finally  use  them  for  clothing  and  for 
food.  There  were  times  when  the  pathos  of  them 
was  a  thing  she  could  not  bear.  They  seemed  to 
represent  the  whole  cruelty  of  life,  made  real  to 


380  FIDELITY 

her  the  terrible  suffering  of  the  world  that  winter 
of  the  war. 

She  watched  the  sheep  until  the  quick  dusk  had 
fallen,  and  then  stood  thinking  of  them  huddled 
over  there  in  the  frigid  darkness.  When  she 
found  that  her  face  was  wet  and  realized  that  she 
had  sobbed  aloud  she  turned  from  the  window  to 
the  stove,  drew  a  chair  up  close  to  it  and  put  her 
feet  on  the  fender.  It  was  so  bitterly  cold  that 
the  room  was  warm  only  near  the  stove;  over 
there  by  the  window  she  had  grown  chilled.  And 
as  the  heat  enveloped  her  ankles  she  thought  of 
the  legs  of  those  poor  frightened  things  that  had 
been  the  last  comers  and  not  able  to  get  to  the 
inside  of  the  circle — that  living  outer  rim  which 
was  left  all  exposed  to  the  frigid  January  night 
in  that  high  mountain  valley.  She  could  feel  the 
cold  cutting  against  their  legs,  could  see  their 
trembling  and  their  vain,  frantic  efforts  to  get 
within  the  solidly  packed  mass.  She  was  crying, 
and  she  said  to  herself,  her  fingers  clenched  down 
into  her  palm,  "Stop  that!  Stop  that!"  She 
did  not  know  what  might  not  happen  to  her  if 
she  were  unable  to  stop  such  thinking  as  that. 

To  try  and  force  herself  away  from  it  she  got 
up  and  lighted  a  lamp.  She  looked  about  on  her 
desk  for  a  magazine  she  had  put  there.  She 
would  make  herself  read  something  while  waiting 
for  Stuart.  He  had  had  to  drive  into  town.  He 
would  be  almost  frozen  when  he  got  back  from 


FIDELITY  381 

that  two-mile  drive.  She  paused  in  her  search 
for  the  magazine  and  went  into  the  kitchen  to 
make  sure  that  the  fire  there  was  going  well.  Then 
she  put  some  potatoes  in  to  bake;  baked  potatoes 
were  hot  things — they  would  be  good  after  that 
drive.  The  heat  from  the  oven  poured  out  to 
her,  and  it  swept  her  again  to  the  thought  of  the 
living  huddled  mass  out  there  in  the  frigid  dark 
ness.  The  wind  beat  against  the  house;  it  was 
beating  against  them.  She  bit  her  lip  hard  and 
again  she  said  to  herself — "No!" 

She  made  some  other  preparations  for  supper. 
She  had  those  things  to  do  herself  now.  The 
Chinaman  Ted  had  brought  home  with  him  in  the 
fall  had  left  in  December.  He  had  appeared  be 
fore  her  ready  for  leaving  and  had  calmly  said, 
"Cold  here,  missis.  And  too  all  alone.  Me  go 
where  more  others  are. ' '  She  had  said  nothing  at 
all  in  reply  to  him,  in  protest,  too  held  by  what 
he  had  said — ' '  Cold  here,  and  too  all  alone ! ' '  She 
had  stood  at  the  window  and  watched  him  going 
up  the  road  toward  town,  going  where  "more  oth 
ers  ' '  were. 

She  went  back  now  into  their  main  room ;  it  was 
both  living  and  dining  room  these  days,  for  since 
the  extreme  cold  had  fastened  on  them  they  had 
abandoned  their  two  little  upstairs  bedrooms  and 
taken  for  sleeping  the  room  which  in  summer  was 
used  as  living-room.  That  could  be  heated  a  little 
by  leaving  the  door  open,  and  it  had  seemed  out 


382  FIDELITY 

of  the  question  to  go  to  bed  in  those  upstairs 
rooms  where  the  cold  had  been  left  untouched. 
Since  they  had  been  doing  their  own  work  all 
extra  things  had  had  to  be  cut  down;  an  upstairs 
fire  would  mean  more  work,  and  it  seemed  there 
was  already  more  work  than  Buth  could  get  done 
and  have  time  for  anything  else.  She  was  tired 
all  the  time  these  days;  she  would  think  during 
the  day  of  the  good  time  she  was  going  to  have 
with  a  book  that  evening,  and  then  night  would 
find  her  so  tired  she  could  scarcely  keep  awake, 
and  she  would  huddle  there  before  the  fire,  dread 
ing  the  cold  of  the  night. 

Life  had  reduced  itself  to  necessities;  things 
had  to  be  ruthlessly  rearranged  for  meeting  con 
ditions.  She  loved  her  own  room  to  sleep  in. 
She  needed  it.  But  she  had  given  that  up  be 
cause  it  was  too  cold,  because  she  could  not  do 
any  more  work.  There  was  something  that  made 
her  cringe  in  the  thought  of  their  sharing  a  bed, 
not  because  of  love  of  being  together,  but  because 
of  the  necessity  of  fighting  the  cold.  And  it  made 
crowded  quarters  downstairs.  She  began  "  pick 
ing  up ' '  the  room  now.  Things  were  piled  up  on 
the  sewing  machine,  on  the  reading  table.  It 
seemed  impossible  to  keep  them  put  away.  She 
tried  hard  to  keep  the  room  an  attractive  place 
to  sit  in,  but  it  was  in  disorder,  uninviting,  most 
of  the  time.  Often,  after  doing  the  kitchen  work, 
she  would  clean  it  all  up  with  the  idea  of  making  it 


FIDELITY  383 

attractive  to  sit  in,  then  would  be  too  utterly  tired 
to  enjoy  it.  She  lagged  in  putting  things  away 
now ;  she  would  stand  holding  them  helplessly,  not 
knowing  where  to  put  them ;  she  got  sick  of  it  and 
just  threw  some  of  them  into  a  closet,  anything 
to  get  them  out  of  sight  for  the  time.  She  knew 
that  was  not  the  way  to  do,  that  it  would  make  it 
harder  another  time.  She  felt  like  crying.  It 
seemed  things  had  got  ahead  of  her,  that  she  was 
swamped  by  them,  and  somehow  she  did  not  have 
the  spirit,  or  the  strength,  to  get  a  new  start,  make 
a  new  plan. 

Finally  she  had  the  room  looking  a  little  less 
slovenly,  not  so  sordid,  and  was  about  to  sit  down 
with  her  magazine.  But  the  lamp  was  flickering, 
and  then  she  remembered  that  she  had  not  filled  it 
that  day.  She  picked  the  lamp  up  and  slowly, 
drooping,  started  for  the  kitchen.  She  gave  the 
can  an  angry  little  tilt  and  the  oil  overflowed  on  the 
table.  She  was  biting  her  lips  as  she  went  about 
looking  for  a  cloth  to  wipe  it  up.  She  heard 
sleigh  bells  and  knew  Stuart  was  coming.  Hastily 
she  washed  the  oil  from  her  hands,  she  always 
hated  herself  when  her  hands  smelled  of  kero 
sene,  and  began  getting  things  ready  for  supper. 

Stuart  came  hurrying  and  stamping  in  after 
putting  the  horse  away,  quickly  banging  the  door 
shut  and  standing  there  pounding  his  feet  and 
rubbing  his  stiffened  hands. 

"Fearfully  cold?"  she  inquired,  hurriedly  get- 


384  FIDELITY 

ting  out  the  box  of  codfish  she  was  going  to  cream 
for  their  supper. 

"Cold!"  he  scoffed,  as  if  in  scorn  for  the  in 
adequacy  of  the  word.  After  a  minute  he  came 
up  to  the  stove.  "I  was  afraid/'  he  said,  holding 
his  right  hand  in  his  left,  "that  it  had  got  these 
fingers." 

He  took  off  his  big  bear-skin  coat.  A  package 
he  had  taken  from  the  pocket  of  it  he  threw  over  on 
the  kitchen  table.  "Don't  throw  the  bacon  there, 
Stuart,"  hurriedly  advised  Euth,  busy  with  the 
cream  sauce  she  was  making,  "I've  just  spilled  oil 
there." 

"Heavens!"  he  said  irritably,  shoving  the  ba 
con  farther  back. 

His  tone  made  Euth's  hand  tremble.  "If  you 
think  I'm  so  careless  you  might  fill  the  lamps 
yourself,"  she  said  tremulously. 

"Who  said  you  were  careless  1"  he  muttered. 
He  went  in  the  other  room  and  after  a  minute 
called  out,  as  one  trying  to  be  pleasant,  "What 
we  going  to  have  for  supper ? ' ' 

"Creamed  codfish,"  she  told  him. 

"For  a  little  change!"  he  said,  under  his 
breath. 

"I  don't  think  that's  very  kind,  Stuart,"  she 
called  back,  quiveringly.  "It's  not  so  simple  a 
matter  to  have  ' changes'  here  now." 

i  l  Oh,  I  know  it, ' '  he  said,  wearily. 

She  brought  the  things  in  and  they  began  the 


FIDELITY  385 

meal  in  silence.  She  had  not  taken  time  to  lay 
the  table  properly.  Things  were  not  so  placed  as 
to  make  them  attractive.  Stuart  tasted  a  piece 
of  bread  and  then  hastily  put  it  aside,  not  conceal 
ing  a  grimace  of  distaste.  "What's  the  matter ?" 
Euth  asked  sharply. 

"I  don't  seem  to  care  much  for  bread  and  oil," 
he  said  in  a  voice  it  was  plainly  an  effort  to  make 
light. 

Buth's  eyes  filled.  She  picked  up  the  plate  of 
bread  and  took  it  to  the  kitchen.  Stuart  rose  and 
went  after  her.  "I'll  get  some  more  bread, 
Euth,"  he  said  kindly.  "Guess  you're  tired  to 
night,  aren't  you?" 

She  turned  away  from  him  and  took  a  drink  of 
water.  Then  she  made  a  big  effort  for  control 
and  went  to  the  dining-room.  She  asked  some 
questions  about  town  and  they  talked  in  a  per 
functory  way  until  supper  was  over. 

He  had  brought  papers  and  a  couple  of  letters 
from  town.  Euth  was  out  in  the  kitchen  doing 
the  dishes  when  she  heard  a  queer  exclamation 
from  him.  "What  is  it,  Stuart?"  it  made  her 
ask  quickly,  going  to  the  dining-room  door  with 
the  cup  she  was  wiping. 

He  gave  her  a  strange  look;  and  then  suddenly 
he  laughed.  "What  is  it?"  the  laugh  made  her 
repeat  in  quick,  sharp  voice. 

"Well,  you'll  never  guess!"  he  said. 

She  frowned  and  stood  there  waiting. 


386  FIDELITY 

"Marion's  going  to  get  a  divorce."  He  looked 
at  her  as  if  he  did  not  believe  what  he  said. 

Ruth  put  her  hand  out  to  the  casement  of  the 
door.  "She  is?"  she  said  dully. 

He  held  up  a  legal  looking  paper.  "Official  no 
tice,  ' '  he  said.  Then  suddenly  he  threw  the  thing 
over  on  the  table  and  with  a  short  hard  laugh 
pulled  his  chair  around  to  the  fire.  Euth  stood 
a  moment  looking  at  it  lying  there.  Then  she 
turned  and  went  back  to  the  dishes.  When  she 
returned  to  the  living-room  the  paper  still  lay 
there  on  the  table.  She  had  some  darning  to  do 
and  she  got  out  her  things  and  sat  down,  chair 
turned  to  one  side,  not  facing  the  legal  looking 
document. 

After  a  little  while  Stuart,  who  had  been  figur 
ing  in  a  memorandum  book,  yawned  and  said  he 
guessed  he'd  go  to  bed.  He  shook  down  the  fire, 
then  got  up  and  picked  up  the  paper  from  the 
table,  folded  it  and  took  it  over  to  the  big  desk 
in  the  corner  where  his  business  things  were. 
"Well,  Euth,"  he  remarked,  "this  would  have 
meant  a  good  deal  to  us  ten  or  twelve  years  ago, 
wouldn't  it!" 

She  nodded,  her  head  bent  over  the  sock  she  was 
darning. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "maybe  it 
will  help  some  even  yet. ' ' 

She  made  no  answer. 

"I  suppose  Marion  wants  to  get  married,"  he 


FIDELITY  387 

went  on  meditatively,  after  a  moment  adding  bit 
terly,  ' '  Her  wanting  it  is  the  only  thing  that  would 
ever  make  her  do  it. ' 9 

He  went  down  cellar  for  coal,  and  after  he  had 
filled  the  stove  began  undressing  before  it.  When 
ready  for  bed  he  sat  there  a  little  before  the  fire, 
as  if  taking  in  all  the  heat  he  could  for  the  night. 
Euth  had  finished  her  darning  and  was  putting 
the  things  away.  "Coming  to  bed?"  he  asked  of 
her. 

"Not  right  away,"  she  said,  her  voice  re 
strained. 

"Better  not  try  to  sit  up  late,  Euth,"  he  said 
kindly.  "You  need  plenty  of  sleep.  I  notice 
you're  often  pretty  tired  at  night." 

She  did  not  reply,  putting  things  in  the  ma 
chine  drawer.  Her  back  was  to  him.  "Well, 
Euth,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  genial  but  slightly 
ironic,  "we  can  get  married  now." 

She  went  on  doing  things  and  still  did  not  speak. 

"Better  late  than  never,"  he  said  pleasantly, 
yawning. 

He  stood  up,  ready  for  going  into  the  bedroom, 
but  still  hating  to  leave  the  fire,  standing  there 
with  his  back  to  it.  "When  shall  we  get  mar 
ried,  Euth?"  he  went  on,  in  a  slightly  amused 
voice. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  Stuart,"  she  replied  shortly 
from  the  kitchen. 

"Have  to  plan  it  out,"  he  said  sleepily,  yawn- 


388  FIDELITY 

ing  once  more.  Then  he  laughed,  as  if  the  idea 
more  and  more  amused  him.  After  that  he  mur 
mured,  in  the  voice  of  one  mildly  curious  about 
a  thing,  "I  wonder  if  Marion  is  going  to  get  mar 
ried!" 

Euth  wanted  to  take  a  bath  before  she  went  to 
bed.  Taking  a  bath  was  no  easy  matter  under 
their  circumstances.  It  was  so  much  work  and 
usually  she  was  so  tired  that  she  would  sometimes 
let  it  go  longer  than  she  would  have  supposed  she 
would  ever  let  bathing  go.  She  was  determined 
not  to  let  it  go  tonight.  She  had  the  water  on 
heating;  she  went  down  for  the  tub,  went  upstairs 
into  her  frigid  room  for  the  fresh  things  to  put 
on  in  the  morning.  The  room  was  so  cold  that 
there  was  a  sort  of  horror  about  it.  She  went 
over  to  the  window;  the  snow  made  the  valley 
bright.  Dimly  she  could  see  a  massed  thing — 
the  huddled  sheep.  With  a  hard  little  laugh  for 
the  sob  that  shook  her  she  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

She  took  her  bath  before  the  fire  in  the  living- 
room.  Stuart  had  piled  on  one  chair  the  clothes 
that  he  had  taken  off  and  would  put  on  in  the 
morning.  She  placed  on  another  the  things  for 
herself.  And  suddenly  she  looked  at  those  two 
chairs  and  the  thing  that  she  had  been  trying  not 
to  think  about — that  now  they  two  could  be  mar 
ried — seemed  to  sear  her  whole  soul  with  mock 
ery.  She  was  rubbing  some  lotion  on  her  red, 
chapped  hands,  hands  defaced  by  work  and  cold. 


FIDELITY  389 

She  had  a  picture  of  her  hands  as  they  used  to 
be — back  there  in  those  years  when  to  have  been 
free  to  marry  Stuart  would  have  made  life  radi 
ant.  She  sat  a  long  time  before  the  fire,  not  want 
ing  to  go  to  bed.  She  particularly  wanted  to  go 
to  bed  alone  that  night,  There  seemed  something 
shameful  in  that  night  sharing  a  bed  as  a  matter 
of  expediency.  Stuart  was  snoring  a  little.  She 
sat  there,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands.  The 
wind  was  beating  against  the  house.  It  was  beat 
ing  against  the  sheep  out  there,  too — it  had  a  clean 
sweep  against  that  outer  rim  of  living  things.  She 
cried  for  a  little  while ;  and  then,  so  utterly  tired 
that  it  did  not  matter  much,  she  went  in  the  other 
room  and  crept  into  bed. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-TWO 

But  at  last  the  cold  had  let  go  of  them.  It  was 
April,  the  snow  had  gone  and  the  air  promised 
that  even  to  that  valley  spring  would  come.  Ruth, 
out  feeding  the  chickens,  felt  that  spring  nearness. 
She  raised  her  face  gratefully  to  the  breeze.  It 
had  seemed  almost  unbelievable  that  the  wind 
would  ever  again  bring  anything  but  blighting 
cold. 

As  she  stood  there,  held  by  that  first  feel  of 
spring,  an  automobile  came  along,  slowed,  and 
Stuart  went  running  out  of  the  house  to  meet  it. 
It  was  his  friend  Stoddard,  a  real-estate  man 
there.  He  had  become  friends  with  this  man  in 
the  last  few  months.  He  had  had  little  in  friend 
ships  with  men  and  this  had  brightened  him  amaz 
ingly.  He  had  a  new  interest  in  business  things, 
new  hopes.  It  had  seemed  to  make  him  younger, 
keener.  He  and  Mr.  Stoddard  had  a  plan  for  go 
ing  into  Montana  where  the  latter  was  interested 
in  a  land  developing  company,  and  going  into 
business  together.  Stuart  was  alive  with  interest 
in  it;  it  promised  new  things  for  him,  a  new 
chance.  They  would  live  in  a  town,  and  it  would 
be  business  life,  which  he  cared  for  as  he  had 
never  come  to  care  for  ranching.  He  was  be- 

390 


FIDELITY  391 

ginning  to  talk  to  Ruth  about  moving,  of  selling 
off  their  stock  and  some  of  their  things.  He  was 
eager  to  make  the  change. 

She  had  gone  in  the  house  as  the  machine 
stopped,  having  seen  that  there  were  people  in 
the  car  with  Mr.  Stoddard  and  not  feeling  pre- 
sentably  dressed.  She  went  upstairs  to  do  the 
work  and  as  she  glanced  down  from  the  upper 
window  she  saw  Stuart  in  laughing  conversation 
with  a  girl  in  the  automobile.  Something  about 
it  arrested  her.  He  was  standing  to  the  far  side 
of  the  machine  so  she  could  see  his  face.  There 
was  something  in  it  she  had  not  seen  for  a  long 
time — that  interest  in  women,  an  unmistakable 
pleasure  in  talking  with  an  attractive  girl.  She 
stood  there,  a  little  back  from  the  window,  watch 
ing  them.  There  was  nothing  at  all  wrong  about 
it;  nothing  to  resent,  simply  a  little  gay  banter 
ing  with  a  girl.  It  was  natural  to  him;  it  had 
been  once,  it  could  be  again.  His  laugh  came  up 
to  her.  So  he  could  still  laugh  like  that;  she  had 
not  heard  him  for  a  long  time.  He  turned  and 
started  hurriedly  for  the  house,  the  car  waiting 
for  him.  He  was  smiling,  his  step  was  buoyant. 
"Ruth,"  he  called  up  to  her,  and  his  voice  too 
had  the  old  buoyancy,  "I'm  going  into  town  with 
Stoddard.  We  want  to  go  over  some  things. 
He  '11  bring  me  back  before  night. ' ' 

"All  right,  Stuart,"  she  called  back  pleasantly. 

She  watched  the  car  out  of  sight.     Stuart,  sit- 


392  FIDELITY 

ting  in  the  front  seat  with  his  friend,  had  turned 
and  was  gayly  talking  with  the  women  behind. 
When  she  first  knew  him,  when  she  was  still  a 
little  girl  and  used  to  see  him  around  with  his  own 
set,  he  had  been  like  that. 

She  did  not  want  to  stay  in  the  house.  That 
house  had  shut  her  in  all  winter.  The  road 
stretched  invitingly  away.  About  a  mile  down  it 
there  was  a  creek,  willows  grew  there.  Perhaps 
there  she  would  find  some  real  spring.  Anyway 
she  had  an  impulse  to  get  out  to  the  moving  water. 
She  had  seemed  locked  in,  everything  had  seemed 
locked  in  for  so  long. 

As  she  was  getting  her  coat  she  put  into  the 
pocket  a  letter  she  had  received  the  day  before 
from  Deane  Franklin.  After  she  had  sat  a  little 
while  by  the  running  water  she  took  the  letter 
out  to  reread,  but  did  not  at  first  open  it.  She 
was  wishing  Deane  were  sitting  there  with  her. 
She  would  like  to  talk  to  him. 

This  letter  was  a  gloomy  one.  It  seemed  that 
Deane  too  was  locked  in.  Soon  after  Ted  came 
back  from  Freeport  in  the  fall  she  had  got  it  out 
of  him  about  the  Franklins.  She  had  sensed  at 
once  that  there  was  something  about  Deane  he  did 
not  want  to  tell  her,  and  before  he  left  for  his 
own  place  she  had  it  from  him  that  the  Franklins 
had  indeed  separated,  and  that  the  gossip  of  Free- 
port  was  that  it  was  because  of  Mrs.  Franklin's 
resentment  of  her.  And  that  was  one  of  the 


FIDELITY  393 

things  had  seemed  to  make  it  possible  for  the  win 
ter  somehow  to  take  her;  that  was  the  thing  had 
seemed  to  close  the  last  door  to  her  spirit,  the 
last  of  those  doors  that  had  been  thrown  wide 
open  when  she  left  Annie's  home  in  Freeport  the 
spring  before. 

She  had  tried  to  write  to  Deane.  She  felt  that 
she  should  write  to  him,  but  she  had  a  feeling 
of  powerlessness.  Finally,  only  a  little  while  be 
fore,  she  had  brought  herself  to  do  it.  She  knew 
it  was  a  poor  letter,  a  halting,  constrained  thing, 
but  it  seemed  the  best  she  could  do,  and  so  finally, 
after  a  great  deal  of  uncertainty,  she  sent  it. 

His  reply  made  her  feel  that  he  realized  how 
it  had  been,  why  she  had  been  so  long  in  writing, 
why  the  letter  had  been  the  stilted  thing  it  was. 
It  gave  her  a  feeling  that  her  friend  had  not 
withdrawn  from  her  because  of  what  she  had 
brought  down  upon  him,  that  that  open  channel 
between  him  and  her  was  there  as  it  had  ever 
been.  And  though  his  letter  did  not  make  her 
happy,  it  loosened  something  in  her  to  be  able  to 
feel  that  the  way  between  her  and  Deane  was  not 
closed. 

" Don't  distress  yourself,  Buth,"  she  now  re 
read,  "or  have  it  upon  your  spirit,  where  too 
much  has  lain  heavy  all  these  years.  You  want 
to  know  the  truth,  and  the  truth  is  that  Amy  did 
resent  my  feeling  about  you — about  you  and  your 
situation — and  that  put  us  apart.  But  you  see 


394  FIDELITY 

it  was  not  in  us  to  stay  together,  or  we  could  not 
have  been  thus  put  apart.  Love  can't  do  it  all, 
Euth — not  for  long ;  I  mean  love  that  hasn  't  roots 
down  in  the  spirit  can't.  And  where  there  isn't 
that  spiritual  underneath,  without  a  hinterland, 
love  is  pretty  insecure. 

"I  could  have  held  on  to  it  a  while  longer,  I 
suppose,  by  cutting  clear  loose  from  the  thing 
really  me.  And  I  suppose  I  would  have  done  it 
if  I  could — I  did  in  fact  make  attempts  at  it — 
but  that  me-ness,  I'm  afraid,  is  most  infernal 
strong  in  my  miserable  make-up.  And  somehow 
the  withdrawal  of  one's  self  seems  a  lot  to  pay 
for  even  the  happiness  of  love.  There  are  some 
of  us  can't  seem  able  to  do  it. 

"So  it's  not  you,  Euth;  it's  that  it  was  like 
that,  and  that  it  came  out  through  the  controversy 
about  you.  Cast  from  your  mind  any  feeling  ad 
ding  the  wrecking  of  my  happiness  to  your  list  of 
crimes. 

"But,  Euth,  I'm  not  happy.  I  couldn't  get 
along  in  happiness,  and  I  don't  get  along  without 
it.  It's  a  paralyzing  thing  not  to  have  happi 
ness — or  to  lose  it,  rather.  Does  it  ever  seem  to 
you  that  life  is  a  pretty  paralyzing  thing?  That 
little  by  little — a  little  here  and  a  little  there — it 
gets  us?  We  get  harness-broke,  you  see.  Seems 
to  have  gone  that  way  with  most  of  the  people  I 
know.  Seems  to  be  that  way  with  me.  Don't  let 
it  do  it  to  you ! 


FIDELITY  395 

" Somehow  I  don't  believe  it  will.  I  think  that 
you,  Ruth,  would  be  a  fine  little  prison-breaker. 
Might  stand  some  show  of  being  one  myself  if 
I  were  anywhere  but  in  this  town.  There's  some 
thing  about  it  that  has  got  me,  Euth.  If  it  hadn't 
— I'd  be  getting  out  of  it  now. 

"But  of  course  I'm  a  pretty  poor  sort,  not 
worth  making  a  fight  for,  or  it  wouldn't  be  like 
this.  And — for  that  matter — what's  the  differ 
ence?  Lives  aren't  counting  for  much  these  days 
— men  who  are  the  right  sort  going  down  by  the 
thousands,  by  the  hundred  of  thousands,  so  what 
— for  heaven's  sake — does  it  matter  about  me! 

' '  I  wish  I  could  see  you ! 

"I'm  glad  for  you  about  the  divorce.  I  believe 
the  case  comes  up  this  April  term,  so  it  may  be 
all  over  by  the  time  you  get  this  letter.  Pretty 
late  in  coming,  and  I  suppose  it  must  seem  a  good 
deal  of  a  mockery — getting  it  now — but  maybe  it 
will  help  some  for  the  future,  make  you  feel  more 
comfortable,  and  I'm  awfully  glad. 

6 '  Funny  about  it,  isn  't  it !  I  wonder  what  made 
her  do  it!  I  was  called  there  this  winter,  maid 
sick — miscarriage — and  Mrs.  Williams  puzzled 
me.  Didn't  turn  the  girl  out,  awfully  decent  to 
her.  I  would  have  supposed  she  would  have  been 
quite  the  other  way.  And  now  this.  Queer,  don't 
you  think? 

"Write  to  me  sometimes,  R.uth.  Sometimes 
write  to  me  what  you're  thinking  about.  Maybe 


396  FIDELITY 

it  will  stir  me  up.  Write  to  me  to  take  a  brace 
and  get  out  of  this  town!  If  you  went  for  me 
hard  enough,  called  me  all  the  insulting  names 
you  could  think  of,  and  told  me  a  living  dead  man 
was  the  most  cowardly  and  most  disgusting  ob 
ject  cluttering  up  the  earth,  you  might  get  a  rise 
out  of  me.  You're  the  one  could  do  it,  if  it  can 
be  done. 

"One  thing  I  do  know — writing  this  has  made 
me  want  like  blazes  to  see  you ! 

"DEANE." 

Euth  sat  there  in  the  arm  of  a  low  willow,  her 
hands  resting  upon  Deane 's  letter,  her  eyes 
closed,  the  faint  breath  of  coming  spring  upon 
her  face.  She  was  tired  and  very  sad.  She  was 
thinking  of  Deane's  life,  of  her  own  life,  of  the 
way  one  seemed  mocked.  She  wished  that  Deane 
were  there;  she  could  talk  to  him  and  she  would 
like  to  talk.  His  letter  moved  something  in  her, 
something  that  had  long  seemed  locked  in  stirred 
a  little.  Her  feeling  about  life  had  seemed  a 
thing  frozen  within  her.  Now  the  feeling  that 
there  was  still  this  open  channel  between  her  and 
Deane  was  as  a  thawing,  an  outlet. 

She  thought  of  her  last  talk  with  Deane,  of 
their  walk  together  that  day,  almost  a  year  be 
fore,  when  he  came  to  see  her  at  Annie's,  the  very 
day  she  was  starting  back  West.  She  had  felt 
anything  but  locked  in  that  day.  There  was  that 


FIDELITY  397 

triumphant  sense  of  openness  to  life,  the  joy  of 
new  interest  in  it,  of  zest  for  it.  And  then  she  came 
back  West,  to  Stuart,  and  somehow  the  radiance 
went,  courage  ebbed,  it  came  to  seem  that  life  was 
all  fixed,  almost  as  if  life,  in  the  real  sense,  was 
over.  That  sense  of  having  failed,  having  been 
inadequate  to  her  own  feeling,  struck  her  down  to 
a  wretched  powerlessness.  And  so  routine,  hard 
work,  bitter  cold,  loneliness,  that  sense  of  the 
cruelty  of  life  which  the  sternness  of  the  country 
gave — those  things  had  been  able  to  take  her;  it 
was  because  something  had  gone  dead  in  her. 

She  thought  of  that  spiritual  hinterland  Deane 
talked  about.  She  thought  of  her  and  Stuart. 
She  grew  very  sad  in  the  thinking.  She  wondered 
if  it  was  her  fault.  However  it  was,  it  was  true 
they  no  longer  found  the  live  things  in  one  an 
other.  She  had  not  been  able  to  communicate  to 
him  the  feeling  with  which  she  came  back  from 
Annie's.  It  was  a  lesser  thing  for  trying  to  talk 
of  it  to  him.  She  did  not  reach  him;  she  knew 
that  he  only  thought  her  a  little  absurd.  After 
that  she  did  not  try  to  talk  to  him  of  what  she 
felt.  Life  lessened;  things  were  as  they  were; 
they  too  were  as  they  were.  It  came  to  seem  just 
a  matter  of  following  out  what  had  been  begun. 
And  then  that  news  of  the  divorce  had  come  to 
mock  her. 

But  she  must  do  something  for  Deane.  Deane 
must  not  go  like  that.  She  had  brought  pencil  and 


398  FIDELITY 

writing  tablet  with  her,  thinking  that  perhaps  out 
of  doors,  away  from  the  house  where  she  had 
seemed  locked  in  all  winter,  she  could  write  to  him. 
She  thought  of  things  to  say,  things  that  should  he 
said,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  have  any  power  to 
charge  them  with  life.  How  could  the  dead  rouse 
the  dead?  She  sat  there  thinking  of  her  and 
Deane,  of  how  they  had  always  been  able  to  reach 
one  another.  And  finally  she  began : 

'  *  Dear  Deane, 

' '  You  must  find  your  way  back  to  life. ' ' 

She  did  not  go  on.  She  sat  staring  at  what  she 
had  written.  She  read  it  over;  she  said  it  aloud. 
It  surged  in  upon  her,  into  shut  places.  She  sat 
looking  at  it,  frightened  at  what  it  was  doing.  Sat 
looking  at  it  after  it  was  all  blurred  by  tears — 
looking  down  at  the  words  she  herself  had  written 
— "You  must  find  your  way  back  to  life." 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-THREE 

Ruth  was  very  quiet  through  the  next  week. 
Stuart  was  preoccupied  with  the  plans  he  was 
making  for  going  to  Montana ;  when  he  talked  with 
her  it  was  of  that,  of  arrangements  to  be  made  for 
it,  and  his  own  absorption  apparently  kept  him 
from  taking  note  of  her  being  more  quiet  than 
usual,  or  different.  It  was  all  working  out  very 
well.  He  had  found  a  renter  for  the  ranch,  the 
prospects  for  the  venture  in  Montana  were  good. 
They  were  to  move  within  a  month.  And  one 
night  in  late  April  when  he  came  home  from  town 
he  handed  Ruth  a  long  envelope,  with  a  laughing, 
"Better  late  than  never. "  Then  he  was  soon 
deep  in  some  papers. 

Ruth  was  sorting  a  box  of  things;  there  were 
many  things  to  be  gone  through  preparatory  to 
moving.  She  had  put  the  paper  announcing  his 
divorce  aside  without  comment;  but  she  loitered 
over  what  she  was  doing.  She  was  watching  Stu 
art,  thinking  about  him. 

She  was  thinking  with  satisfaction  that  he 
looked  well.  He  had  thrown  off  the  trouble  that 
had  brought  about  their  departure  from  Freeport 
twelve  years  before.  He  was  growing  rather 
stout;  his  fair  hair  had  gone  somewhat  gray  and 

399 


400  FIDELITY 

his  face  was  lined,  he  had  not  the  look  of  a  young 
man.  But  he  looked  strong,  alert.  His  new  hopes 
had  given  him  vigor,  a  new  buoyancy.  She  sat 
there  thinking  of  the  years  she  had  lived  with  him, 
of  the  wonder  and  the  happiness  she  had  known 
through  him,  of  the  hard  things  they  had  faced  to 
gether.  Her  voice  was  gentle  as  she  replied  to  his 
inquiry  about  what  day  of  the  month  it  was. 

' '  I  think, ' '  he  said,  ' '  that  we  can  get  off  by  the 
fifteenth,  don't  you,  Buth!" 

"Perhaps."  Her  voice  shook  a  little,  but  he 
was  following  his  own  thoughts  and  did  not  notice. 
After  a  little  he  came  and  sat  across  the  table  from 
her.  "And,  Ruth,  about  this  getting  married  bus 
iness — "  He  broke  off  with  a  laugh.  '  '  Seems  ab 
surd,  doesn't  it?" 

She  nodded,  fumbling  with  the  things  in  the  box, 
her  head  bent  over  them. 

"Well,  I  was  thinking  we'd  better  stop  some 
where  along  the  way  and  attend  to  it.  Can't  do  it 
here — don't  want  to  there." 

She  lifted  her  hands  from  the  box  and  laid  them 
on  the  table  that  was  between  him  and  her.  She 
looked  over  at  him  and  said,  quietly,  in  a  voice  that 
shook  only  a  little:  "I  do  not  want  to  get  mar 
ried,  Stuart." 

He  was  filling  his  pipe  and  stopped  abruptly, 
spilling  the  tobacco  on  the  table.  "What  did  you 
say!"  he  asked  in  the  voice  of  one  sure  he  must 
have  heard  wrong. 


FIDELITY  401 

"I  said,"  she  repeated,  "that  I  did  not  want  to 
get  married." 

He  stared  at  her,  his  face  screwed  up.  Then  it 
relaxed  a  little.  "Oh,  yes — yes,  I  know  how  you 
feel.  It  seems  so  absurd — after  all  this  time — 
after  all  there  has  been.  But  we  must  attend  to  it, 
Euth.  It's  right  that;  we  should — now  that  we 
can.  God  knows  we  wanted  to  bad  enough — long 
ago.  And  it  will  make  us  feel  better  about  going 
into  a  new  place.  We  can  face  people  better." 
He  gathered  up  the  tobacco  he  had  spilled  and  put 
it  in  his  pipe. 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  speak.  Then,  "That 
wasn't  what  I  meant,  Stuart,"  she  said,  falter- 
ingly. 

"Well,  then,  what  in  the  world  do  you  mean?" 
he  asked  impatiently. 

She  did  not  at  once  say  what  she  meant.  Her 
eyes  held  him,  they  were  so  strangely  steady. 
"Just  why  would  we  be  getting  married,  Stuart?" 
she  asked  simply. 

At  first  he  could  only  stare  at  her,  appeared  to 
be  waiting  for  her  to  throw  light  on  what  she  had 
asked.  When  she  did  not  do  that  he  moved  impa 
tiently,  as  if  resentful  of  being  quizzed  this  way. 
"Why — why,  because  we  can  now.  Because  it's 
the  thing  to  do.  Because  it  will  be  expected  of 
us,"  he  concluded,  with  gathering  impatience  for 
this  unnecessary  explanation. 

A  faint  smile  traced  itself  about  Ruth's  mouth, 


402  FIDELITY 

It  made  her  face  very  sad  as  she  said :  "I  do  not 
seem  to  be  anxious  to  marry  for  any  of  those 
reasons,  Stuart. " 

"Buth,  what  are  you  driving  at?"  he  demanded, 
thoroughly  vexed  at  the  way  she  had  bewildered 
him. 

"This  is  what  I  am  driving  at,  Stuart, "  she  be 
gan,  a  little  more  spiritedly.  But  then  she 
stopped,  as  if  dumb  before  it.  She  looked  over  at 
him  as  if  hoping  her  eyes  would  tell  it  for  her. 
But  as  he  continued  in  that  look  of  waiting,  impa 
tient  bewilderment  she  sighed  and  turned  a  little 
away.  "Don't  you  think,  Stuart,"  she  asked,  her 
voice  low,  ' '  that  the  future  is  rather  too  important 
a  thing  to,  be  given  up  to  ratifying  the  past?" 

He  pushed  his  chair  back  in  impatience  that  was 
mounting  to  anger.  "Just  what  do  you  mean?" 
he  asked,  stiffly. 

She  picked  up  the  long  envelope  lying  on  the 
table  between  them.  She  held  it  in  her  hand  a 
moment  without  speaking.  For  as  she  touched  it 
she  had  a  sense  of  what  it  would  have  meant  to 
have  held  it  in  her  hand  twelve  years  before,  over 
on  the  other  side  of  their  life  together,  a  new  sense 
of  the  irony  and  the  pity  of  not  having  had  it  then 
— and  having  it  now.  She  laid  it  down  between 
them.  "To  me,"  she  said,  "this  sets  me  free. 

"Free  to  choose,"  she  went  on,  as  he  only  stared 
at  her.  There  was  a  moment  of  looking  at  him  out 
of  eyes  so  full  of  feeling  that  they  held  back  the 


FIDELITY  403 

feeling  that  had  flushed  his  face.  "And  my 
choice,"  she  said,  with  a  strange  steadiness,  "is 
that  I  now  go  my  way  alone. ' ' 

He  spoke  then;  but  it  was  only  to  stammer: 
"W}ry,—Ruthl"  Helplessly  he  repeated: 
"Ruthl" 

1 '  But  you  see  ?  You  do  see  ? "  she  cried.  "  If  it 
had  not  been  so  much — so  beautiful!  Just  be 
cause  it  ivas  what  it  was — "  She  choked  and 
could  not  go  on. 

He  came  around  and  sat  down  beside  her.  The 
seriousness  of  his  face,  something  she  had  touched 
in  him,  made  it  finer  than  it  had  been  in  those  last 
years  of  routine.  It  was  more  as  it  used  to  be. 
His  voice  too  seemed  out  of  old  days  as  he  said: 
"Ruth,  I  don't  know  yet  what  you  mean — why 
you  're  saying  this  ? ' ' 

i  i  I  think  you  do,  Stuart, ' '  she  said  simply.  ' '  Or 
I  think  you  will,  if  you'll  let  yourself.  It's  simply 
that  this — "  she  touched  the  envelope  on  the  table 
before  her — "that  this  finds  us  over  on  the  other 
side  of  marriage.  And  this  is  what  I  mean ! ' '  she 
flamed.  "I  mean  that  the  marriage  between  us 
was  too  real  to  go  through  the  mockery  this  would 
make  possible  now!"  She  turned  away  because 
she  was  close  to  tears. 

He  sat  there  in  silence.  Then,  "Have  I  done 
anything,  Ruth?"  he  asked  in  the  hesitating  way 
of  one  at  sea. 

She  shook  her  head  without  turning  back  to  him. 


404  FIDELITY 

"You  apparently  have  got  the  impression,"  he 
went  on,  a  faint  touch  of  resentment  creeping  into 
his  voice  at  having  to  make  the  declaration,  * '  that 
I  don't  care  any  more.  That — that  isn't  so,"  he 
said  awkwardly  and  with  a  little  rise  of  resent 
ment. 

Euth  had  turned  a  little  more  toward  him,  but 
was  looking  down  at  her  hands,  working  with  them 
as  if  struggling  for  better  control.  '  '  I  have  no — 
complaint  on  that  score,"  she  said  very  low. 

"Things  change,"  he  went  on,  with  a  more  open 
manner  of  defence.  "The  first  kind  of  love 
doesn't  last  forever.  It  doesn't  with  anyone,"  he 
finished,  rather  sullenly. 

"I  know  that,  Stuart,"  she  said  quietly.  "I 
know  enough  to  know  that.  But  I  know  this  as 
well.  I  know  that  sometimes  that  first  kind  of 
love  leaves  a  living  thing  to  live  by.  I  know  that 
it  does — sometimes.  And  I  know  that  with  us — it 
hasn't." 

As  if  stung  by  that  he  got  up  and  began  walking 
angrily  about  the  room.  "You're  talking  non 
sense  !  Why  wouldn't  we  get  married,  I'd  like  to 
know,  after  all  this  time  together?  We  will  get 
married — that's  all  there  is  to  it!  A  nice  spec 
tacle  we  would  make  of  ourselves  if  we  didn't! 
Have  you  thought  of  that  ?  "  he  demanded.  ' '  Have 
you  thought  of  what  people  would  say  ? ' ' 

Again   her  lips   traced  that  faint  smile  that 


FIDELITY  405 

showed  the  sadness  of  her  face.  "  There  was  a 
time,  Stuart, "  she  said  wearily,  "when  we  were 
not  governed  by  what  people  would  say. ' ' 

He  frowned,  but  went  on  more  mildly: 
" You've  got  the  thing  all  twisted  up,  Euth.  You 
do  that  sometimes.  You  often  have  a  queer  way 
of  looking  at  a  thing ;  not  the  usual  way — a — well, 
a  sort  of  twisted  way." 

She  got  up.  One  hand  was  at  her  throat  as  if 
feeling  some  impediment  there ;  the  knuckles  of  her 
clenched  hand  were  tapping  the  table.  "A  queer 
way  of  looking  at  things, ' '  she  said  in  quick,  sharp 
voice  that  was  like  the  tapping  of  her  knuckles. 
"Not  the  usual  way.  A — sort  of  twisted  way. 
Perhaps.  Perhaps  that's  true.  Perhaps  that  was 
the  way  I  had  of  looking  at  things  twelve  years 
ago — when  I  left  them  all  behind  and  went  with 
you.  Perhaps  that  was  what  made  me  do  it — that 
queer,  twisted  way  of  looking  at  things !  But  this 
much  is  true,  Stuart,  and  this  you  have  got  to  know 
is  true.  I  went  with  you  because  I  was  as  I  was. 
I'm  going  my  way  alone  now  because  I  am  as  I 
am.  And  what  you  don't  see  is  this, — that  the 
thing  that  made  me  go  with  you  then  is  the  thing 
that  makes  me  go  my  way  alone  now." 

For  a  moment  they  stood  there  facing  each 
other,  her  eyes  forcing  home  what  she  had  said. 
But  she  was  trembling  and  suddenly,  weakly,  she 
sat  down. 


406  FIDELITY 

"Well,  I  simply  can't  understand  it!"  lie  cried 
petulantly  and  flung  open  the  door  and  stood  look 
ing  out. 

"Look  here,  Kuth,"  he  turned  sharply  to  her 
after  a  little,  "have  you  thought  of  the  position 
this  puts  me  in?  Have  you  thought  of  the  posi 
tion  you  would  put  me  in?"  he  contended  hotly. 
"Do  you  know  what  people  would  say  about  me? 
You  ought  to  know  what  they'd  say!  They'd  say 
I  was  the  one! — they'd  say  /  didn't  want  to  do 
it!" 

There  was  a  little  catch  something  like  a  laugh 
as  she  replied:  "Of  course.  They'll  say  men 
don't  marry  women  of  that  sort,  won't  they?" 

"Oh,  you  can't  do  this,  Kuth,"  he  went  on 
quickly.  "You  see,  it  can't  be  done.  I  tell  you  it 
wouldn't  be  right!  It  just  wouldn't  be  right — 
in  any  sense.  Why  can't  you  see  that?  Can't 
you  see  that  we've  got  to  vindicate  the  whole 
thing?  That  we've  got  to  show  them  that  it  does 
last!  That's  the  vindication  for  it,"  he  finished 
stoutly,  "that  it's  the  kind  of  a  love  that  doesn't 
die! 

"And  I'd  like  to  know  where  under  the  sun 
you'd  go!"  he  demanded  hotly,  irritated  at  the 
slight  smile  his  last  words  had  brought. 

"What  I  will  do,  Stuart,  after  leaving  you,  is  for 
me  to  determine,  isn't  it?" 

"A  nice  way  to  treat  me!"  he  cried,  and  threw 
himself  down  on  the  couch,  elbows  on  his  knees  and 


FIDELITY  407 

his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  "  After  all  these 
years — after  all  there  has  been — that's  a  nice  way 
— "  he  choked. 

She  was  quick  to  go  over  and  sit  beside  him ;  she 
leaned  a  little  against  him,  her  hand  on  his  arm, 
just  as  she  had  sat  many  times  when  he  needed 
her,  when  she  brought  him  comfort.  The  thought 
of  all  those  times  rose  in  her  and  brought  tears  to 
her  eyes  that  had  been  burning  dry  a  moment  be 
fore.  She  felt  the  feeling  this  had  whipped  to  life 
in  him  and  was  moved  by  it,  and  by  an  underlying 
feeling  of  the  sadness  of  change.  For  his  expostu 
lations  spoke  of  just  that — change.  She  knew  this 
for  the  last  hurt  she  could  help  him  through,  that 
she  must  help  him  through  this  hurt  brought  him 
by  this  last  thing  she  could  do  for  him.  Something 
about  things  being  like  that  moved  her  deeply.  She 
saw  it  all  so  clearly,  and  so  sadly.  It  was  not  grief 
this  brought  him;  this  was  not  the  frenzy  or  the 
anguish  in  the  thought  of  losing  her  that  there 
would  have  been  in  those  other  years.  It  was 
shock,  rather — disturbance,  and  the  forcing  home 
to  him  that  sense  of  change.  He  would  have  gone 
on  without  much  taking  stock,  because,  as  he  had 
said,  it  was  the  thing  to  do.  Habit,  a  sense  of  fit 
ness,  rather  than  deep  personal  need,  would  have 
made  him  go  on.  And  now  it  was  his  sense  that  it 
was  gone,  his  resentment  against  that,  his  momen 
tary  feeling  of  being  left  desolate.  She  looked  at 
his  bowed  head  through  tears.  Gently  she  laid  her 


408  FIDELITY 

hand  on  it.  She  thought  of  him  as  he  stood  before 
the  automobile  the  other  day  lighting  up  in  the  gay 
talk  with  that  girl.  She  knew,  with  a  sudden 
wrench  in  her  heart  she  knew  it,  that  he  would  not 
be  long  desolate.  She  understood  him  too  well  for 
that.  She  knew  that,  hard  as  she  seemed  in  that 
hour,  she  was  doing  for  Stuart  in  leaving  him  the 
greatest  thing  she  could  now  do  for  him.  A  tear 
fell  to  her  hand  in  her  clear  knowing  of  that. 
There  was  deep  sadness  in  knowing  that,  after  all 
there  had  been,  to  leave  the  way  cleared  of  her 
self  was  doing  a  greater  thing  than  anything  else 
she  could  do  for  him. 

A  sob  shook  her  and  he  raised  his  face  upon 
which  there  were  tears  and  clutched  her  two  wrists 
with  his  hands.  "Buth,"  he  whispered,  "it  will 
come  back.  I  feel  that  this  has — has  brought  it 
back/' 

The  look  of  old  feeling  had  transformed  his  face. 
After  barren  days  it  was  sweet  to  her.  It  tempted 
her,  tempted  her  to  shut  her  eyes  to  what  she  knew 
and  sink  into  the  sweetness  of  believing  herself 
loving  and  loved  again.  Perhaps,  for  a  little  time, 
they  could  do  it.  To  be  deeply  swayed  by  this 
common  feeling,  to  go  together  in  an  emotion,  was 
like  dear  days  gone.  But  it  was  her  very  fidelity 
to  those  days  gone  that  made  her  draw  just  a  little 
away,  and,  tears  running  down  her  face,  shake  her 
head.  She  knew  too  well,  and  she  had  the  courage 
of  her  knowing.  This  was  something  that  had 


FIDELITY  409 

seeped  up  from  old  feeling;  it  had  no  life  of  its 
own.  What  they  were  sharing  now  was  grief  over 
a  dead  thing  that  had  been  theirs  together.  That 
grief,  that  sharing,  left  them  tender.  This  was 
their  moment — their  moment  for  leaving  it.  They 
must  leave  it  before  it  lay  there  between  them  both 
dead  and  unmourned,  clogging  life  for  them.  She 
whispered  to  him:  "Just  because  of  all  it  has 
meant — let's  leave  it  while  we  can  leave  it  like 
this!" 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOUR 

The  man  who  worked  for  them  had  gone  ahead 
in  the  spring  wagon  with  her  trunk.  She  was 
waiting  for  Ted  to  hitch  the  other  horse  to  the 
buggy  and  drive  her  in  to  the  train.  She  was  all 
ready  and  stood  there  looking  ahout  the  house  she 
was  leaving.  There  were  things  in  that  room 
which  they  had  had  since  their  first  years  together 
— that  couch,  this  chair,  had  come  to  them  in  Ari 
zona  in  the  days  when  they  loved  each  other  with 
a  passion  that  made  everything  else  in  the  world 
a  pale  thing  before  their  love.  She  stood  picking 
out  things  that  they  had  had  when  love  was  flaming 
strong  in  them  and  it  seemed  they  two  fought  to 
gether  against  the  whole  world.  And  as  she  stood 
there  alone  in  their  place  in  common  that  she  was 
about  to  leave  she  was  made  sick  by  a  sense  of 
failure — that  desolate  sense  of  failure  she  had 
tried  all  along  to  beat  down.  That  love  had  been 
theirs — and  this  was  what  it  had  come  to.  That 
wonder  had  been — and  it  ended  in  the  misery  of 
this  leavetaking.  She  turned  sharply  around, 
opened  the  door  and  stood  there  in  the  doorway, 
her  back  to  the  place  she  was  quitting,  her  pale 
stern  face  turned  to  the  mountains — to  that  east 
ern  range  which  she  was  going  to  cross.  She 

410 


FIDELITY  411 

tried  to  draw  something  from  them,  draw 
strength  for  the  final  conflict  which  she  knew  she 
would  have  with  Ted  while  they  drove  in  to  town. 
She  looked  toward  the  barn-yard  to  see  if  he  was 
most  ready,  and  could  not  but  smile  a  little  at  his 
grim,  resolute  face  as  he  was  checking  up  the 
horse.  She  could  see  so  well  that  he  was  going  to 
make  the  best  of  his  time  while  driving  her  in  to 
the  train.  And  it  seemed  she  had  nothing  left  in 
her  for  combat ;  she  would  be  glad  to  see  the  train 
that  was  to  take  her  away. 

Three  days  before  Stuart  had  gone  suddenly  to 
Denver.  He  went  with  his  friend  Stoddard,  re 
garding  some  of  their  arrangements  for  Montana. 
He  had  found  only  at  the  last  minute  that  he  would 
have  to  go,  had  hurriedly  driven  out  from  town 
to  get  his  things  and  tell  her  he  was  going. 
He  had  been  in  the  house  only  a  few  minutes  and 
was  all  excitement  about  the  unexpected  trip.  It 
was  two  days  after  their  talk.  After  their  mo 
ment  of  being  swept  together  by  the  feeling  of 
things  gone  he  had,  as  if  having  to  get  a  footing  on 
every-day  ground,  ended  the  talk  with  saying: 
1 ' I'll  tell  you,  Kuth,  you  need  a  little  change. 
We'll  have  to  work  it  out."  The  next  day  they 
were  both  subdued,  more  gentle  with  each  other 
than  they  had  been  of  late,  but  they  did  not  refer 
to  the  night  before.  After  he  had  hurriedly  kissed 
her  good-by  when  leaving  for  Denver  he  had 
turned  back  and  said,  "And  don't  you  worry — 


412  FIDELITY 

about  things,  Euth.  We'll  get  everything  fixed  up 
— and  a  little  change — "  He  had  hurried  down  to 
the  machine  without  finishing  it. 

She  had  gone  to  the  window  and  watched  him 
disappear.  He  was  sitting  erect,  alert,  talking 
animatedly  with  his  friend.  She  watched  him  as 
far  as  she  could  see  him.  She  knew  that  she  would 
not  see  him  again. 

And  then  she  hitched  up  the  horse  and  drove 
into  town  and  telephoned  Ted,  who  lived  ahout 
fifty  miles  to  the  north.  She  told  him  that  she  was 
going  East  and  asked  him  to  come  down  the  next 
day  and  see  her. 

She  had  known  that  Ted  would  not  approve, 
would  not  understand,  but  she  had  not  expected 
him  to  make  the  fight  he  had.  It  had  taken  every 
bit  of  her  will,  her  force,  to  meet  him.  Worn  now, 
and  under  the  stress  of  the  taking  leave,  at  once 
too  tired  and  too  emotional,  she  wished  that  he 
would  let  it  rest.  But  the  grim  line  of  his  jaw 
told  her  that  he  had  no  such  intention.  She  felt 
almost  faint  as  they  drove  through  the  gate.  She 
closed  her  eyes  and  did  not  open  them  for  some 
time. 

"You  see,  Buth,"  Ted  began  gently,  as  if 
realizing  that  she  was  very  worn,  "you  just  don't 
realize  how  crazy  the  whole  thing  is.  It's  ridicu 
lous  for  you  to  go  to  New  York — alone!  You've 
never  been  there,"  he  said  firmly. 


FIDELITY  413 

"No.  That  is  one  reason  for  going, "  she  an 
swered,  rather  feebly. 

"One  reason  for  going!"  he  cried.  "What '11 
you  do  when  the  train  pulls  in?  Where '11  you 

9*1" 

"I  don't  know,  Ted,"  she  said  patiently,  "just 
where  I  will  go.  And  I  rather  like  that — not 
knowing  where  I  will  go.  It's  all  new,  you  see. 
Nothing  is  mapped  out." 

"  It 's  a  fool  thing ! "  he  cried.  i  *  Don 't  you  know 
that  something  will  happen  to  you  ? ' ' 

She  smiled  a  little,  very  wearily.  "Lots  of 
things  have  happened  to  me,  Ted,  and  I've  come 
through  them  somehow."  After  a  moment  she 
added,  with  more  spirit :  "There's  just  one  thing 
might  happen  to  me  that  I  haven't  the  courage  to 
face."  He  looked  at  her  inquiringly.  "Nothing 
happening,"  she  said,  with  a  little  smile. 

He  turned  impatiently  and  slapped  the  horse 
with  the  reins.  "You  seem  to  have  lost  your 
senses,"  he  said  sharply. 

He  drove  along  in  silence  for  a  little.  Ruth 
looked  at  him  and  his  face  seemed  hard.  She 
thought  of  how  close  she  and  Ted  had  come,  how 
good  he  had  been,  how  much  it  had  meant.  She 
could  not  leave  him  like  this.  She  must  make  the 
effort,  must  gather  herself  together  and  try  and 
make  Ted  see.  "Perhaps,  Ted,"  she  began  trem 
ulously,  "you  think  I  have  taken  leave  of  my 


414  FIDELITY 

senses  because  you  haven't  tried  very  hard  to 
understand  just  what  it  is  I  feel."  She  smiled 
wanly  as  she  added,  "You've  been  so  absorbed  in 
your  own  disapproval,  you  know." 

"Well,  how  can  I  be  any  other  way?"  he  de 
manded.  "Going  away  like  this — for  no  reason 
— on  a  wild  goose  chase!  Isn't  Stuart  good  to 
you!"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"Yes,  Ted,"  she  answered,  as  if  she  were  tired 
of  saying  it,  * l  Stuart  is  good  enough  to  me. ' ' 

"I  suppose  things  aren't — just  as  they  used  to 
be,"  he  went  on,  a  little  doggedly.  "Heavens! — 
they  aren't  with  anybody!  And  what  will  people 
say?"  he  broke  out  with  new  force.  "Think  of 
what  people  in  Freeport  will  say,  Euth.  They'll 
say  the  whole  thing  was  a  failure,  and  that  it  was 
because  you  did  wrong.  They'll  say,  when  the 
chance  finally  came,  that  Stuart  didn't  want  to 
marry  you."  He  colored  but  brought  it  out 
bluntly. 

"I  suppose  they  will,"  agreed  Euth. 

"And  if  they  knew  the  truth — or  what  I  know, 
though  heaven  knows  I'm  balled  up  enough  about 
what  the  truth  really  is ! — they'd  say  it  just  shows 
again  that  you  are  different,  not — something 
wrong,"  he  finished  bitterly. 

She  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  "And  is  that 
what  you  think,  Ted?"  she  asked,  choking  a 
little.  * 

"I  don't  understand  it,  Euth,"  he  said,  less  ag- 


FIDELITY  415 

gressively.  "I  had  thought  you  would  be  so  glad 
of  the  chance  to  marry.  I — "  he  hesitated  but 
did  not  pursue  that.  He  had  never  told  her  of 
going  to  see  Mrs.  Williams,  of  the  effort  he  had 
made  for  her.  "It  seemed  that  now,  when  your 
chance  came,  you  ought  to  show  people  that  you 
do  want  to  do  the  right  thing.  It  surprises  me  a 
lot,  Euth,  that  you  don't  feel  that  way,  and — Oh! 
I  don't  get  it  at  all,"  he  concluded  abruptly. 

Tears  were  very  close  when,  after  a  little,  she 
answered:  "Well,  Ted,  maybe  when  you  have 
less  of  life  left  you  will  understand  better  what 
it  is  I  feel.  Perhaps,"  she  went  on  in  answer  to 
his  look  inquiry,  "when  the  future  has  shrunk 
down  to  fewer  years  you'll  see  it  as  more  im 
portant  to  get  from  it  what  you  can. ' ' 

They  drove  for  a  little  time  in  silence.  They 
had  come  in  sight  of  the  town  and  she  had  not 
won  Ted;  she  was  going  away  without  his  sym 
pathy.  And  she  was  going  away  alone,  more 
alone  this  time  than  she  had  been  twelve  years  be 
fore. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  left  it  there  while 
she  was  speaking.  "Ted,"  she  said,  "it's  like 
this.  This  has  gone  for  me.  It's  all  gone.  It 
was  wonderful — but  it's  gone.  Some  x^eople,  I 
know,  could  go  on  with  the  life  love  had  made 
after  love  was  gone.  I  am  not  one  of  those  peo 
ple — that's  all.  You  speak  of  there  being  some 
thing  discreditable  in  my  going  away  just  when 


416  FIDELITY 

I  could  marry.  To  me  there  would  be  something 
discreditable  in  going  on.  It  would  be — "  she  put 
her  hand  over  her  heart  and  said  it  very  simply, 
"it  would  be  unfaithful  to  something  here."  She 
choked  a  little  and  he  turned  away. 

"But  I  don't  see  how  you  can  bear,  Buth,"  he 
said  after  a  moment,  made  gentle  by  her  confi 
dence,  "to  feel  that  it  has — failed.  I  don't  see 
how  you  can  bear — after  all  you  paid  for  it — to 
let  it  come  to  nothing." 

"Don't  say  that,  Ted !"  she  cried  in  a  voice  that 
told  he  had  touched  the  sorest  place.  "Don't  say 
that!"  she  repeated,  a  little  wildly.  "You  don't 
know  what  you're  talking  about.  Failed?  A 
thing  that  glorified  life  for  years — failed®" 

Her  voice  broke,  but  it  was  more  steadily  she 
went  on:  "That's  the  very  reason  I'm  going  to 
New  York — simply  that  it  may  not  come  to  noth 
ing.  I'm  going  away  from  it  for  that  very  reason 
— that  it  may  not  come  to  nothing !  That  my  life 
may  not  come  to  nothing.  What  I've  had — what 
I've  gone  through — lives  in  me,  Ted.  It  doesn't 
come  to  nothing  if  I — come  to  something!"  She 
stopped  abruptly  with  a  choking  little  laugh. 

Ted  looked  at  her  wonderingly;  but  the  hard 
ness  had  gone  out  of  his  look.  "But  what  are  you 
going  to  do,  Buth?"  he  asked  gently. 

"I  don't  know  yet.    I've  got  to  find  out." 

"You  must  see  that  I  can't  help  but  worry  about 
it,"  he  went  on.  "Going  so  far  away — to  a  place 


FIDELITY  417 

absolutely  unknown  to  you — where  I'm  afraid  it 
will  be  so  much  harder  than  you  think. ' ' 

She  did  not  answer  him,  looking  off  to  that 
eastern  range  she  was  going  to  cross,  as  if  the 
mountains  could  help  her  to  hold  on  to  her  own 
feeling  against  the  doubts  he  was  trying  to  throw 
around  her. 

"You  see,  Kuth,"  he  went  on,  as  if  feeling  his 
way,  not  wanting  to  hurt  her,  "what  has  been 
may  make  it  hard  to  go  on.  You  can't  tell.  You'll 
never  know — never  be  sure.  Old  things  may  come 
up  to  spoil  new  ones  for  you.  That's  what  I'm 
so  afraid  of.  That's  what  it  seems  you  aren't 
seeing.  You  would  be  so  much — safer — to  stay 
with  Stuart." 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  little  laugh,  her  lashes 
wet.  "Yes,  Ted  dear,  I  suppose  I  would.  But 
I  never  did  seem  to  stay  where  I  was  safest — did 
I?" 

"Don't  worry  about  me,  Ted,"  she  said  just  as 
they  were  coming  into  town.  "I'm  going  to  take 
some  of  father's  money — yes,  yes,  I  know  it  isn't 
a  great  deal,  but  enough  for  a  little  while,  till  I 
get  my  bearings — and  I'm  going  to  make  things 
come  alive  for  me  again.  I'm  not  through  yet, 
that's  all.  I  could  have  stayed  with  life  gone 
dead;  it  would  have  been  safer,  as  you  say.  But 
you  see  I'm  not  through  yet,  Ted — I  guess  that's 
the  secret  of  it  all.  I  want  more  life — more  things 
from  life.  And  I'm  going  to  New  York  just  be- 


418  FIDELITY 

cause  it  will  be  so  completely  new — so  completely 
beginning  new — and  because  it's  the  center  of  so 
many  living  things.  And  it's  such  a  wonderful 
time,  Ted.  It  seems  to  me  the  war  is  going  to 
make  a  new  world — a  whole  new  way  of  looking 
at  things.  It's  as  if  a  lot  of  old  things,  old  ideas, 
had  been  melted,  and  were  fluid  now,  and  were 
to  be  shaped  anew.  That's  the  way  it  seems  to 
me,  and  that  makes  me  the  more  eager  to  get  some 
things  from  life  that  I  haven't  had.  I've  been 
shut  in  with  my  own  experience.  If  I  stayed  on 
here  I'd  be  shut  in  with  my  own  dead  experiences. 
I  want  to  go  on!  I  can't  stop  here — that's  all. 
And  we  have  to  find  our  way  for  going  on.  We 
must  find  our  own  way,  Ted,  even,"  she  choked, 
'  '  though  what  we  see  as  the  way  may  seem  a  wild 
goose  chase  to  some  one  we  love.  I'll  tell  you 
why  I'm  going  to  New  York,"  she  flashed  with 
sudden  defiance.  "I'm  going  because  I  want 
to!" 

She  laughed  a  little  and  he  laughed  with  her. 
Then  she  went  on  more  gently:  " Because  I  want 
to.  Just  the  thought  of  it  has  made  life  come 
alive  for  me — that's  reason  enough  for  going  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth!  I'm  going  to  live  again, 
Ted — not  just  go  on  with  what  living  has  left. 
I'm  going  to  find  some  work  to  do.  Yes  I  can!" 
she  cried  passionately  in  response  to  his  gesture 
"I  suppose  to  you  it  seems  just  looking  out  for 
myself — seems  unfaithful  to  Stuart.  Well,  it 


FIDELITY  419 

isn't — that's  all  I  can  say,  and  maybe  some  day 
you'll  see  that  it  wasn't.  It  isn't  unfaithful  to 
turn  from  a  person  you  have  nothing  more  to 
offer,  for  whom  you  no  longer  make  life  a  living 
thing.  It's  more  faithful  to  go.  You'll  see  that 
some  time,  Ted.  But  be  good  to  Stuart,"  she 
hastily  added.  "You  stay  with  him  till  he  can 
get  off.  I've  made  all  the  arrangements  with 
Mrs.  Baxter  for  packing  up — sending  on  the 
things.  It  would  be  hard  for  him  to  do  that,  I 
know.  And  once  away  from  here — new  interests 
— life  all  new  again — oh,  no,  Ted  dear,"  she 
laughed  a  little  chokingly,  "don't  worry  about 
Stuart." 

"  I  'm  not  worrying  about  Stuart, ' '  he  muttered. 
"I'm  worrying  about  you." 

She  squeezed  his  arm  in  affectionate  gratitude 
for  the  love  in  the  growling  words.  "Don't 
worry  about  me,  Ted,"  she  implored,  "be  glad 
with  me!  I'm  alive  again!  It's  so  wonderful  to 
be  alive  again.  There's  the  future — a  great,  beau 
tiful  unknown.  It  is  wonderful,  Ted,"  she  said 
with  insistence,  as  if  she  would  banish  his  fears — 
and  her  own. 

They  had  a  few  minutes  to  wait,  and  Ted  ran 
over  to  the  postoffice  to  get  her  mail  for  her — she 
was  expecting  a  paper  she  wanted  to  read  on  the 
train.  She  tucked  what  he  handed  her  into  her  bag 
and  then  when  she  heard  the  train  coming  she  held 
on  to  Ted's  arm,  held  it  as  if  she  could  not  bear  let- 


420  FIDELITY 

ting  it  go.     "It's  all  right, "  were  her  last  words 
to  him,  smiling  through  tears. 

She  had  been  trying  all  along  to  hold  her  mind 
from  the  thought  that  they  would  pass  through 
Freeport.  Late  the  next  afternoon,  when  she 
knew  they  were  nearing  it,  she  grew  restless.  It 
was  then  she  remembered  the  paper  in  her  bag — 
she  had  been  in  no  mood  for  reading,  too  charged 
with  her  own  feeling.  She  got  it  out  now  and 
found  that  with  the  paper  was  a  letter.  It  was  a 
letter  from  Deane  Franklin. 

She  held  it  for  a  little  while  without  opening  it. 
It  seemed  so  strange  to  have  it  just  as  she  was 
nearing  Freeport. 

The  letter  was  dated  the  week  before.     It  read : 

"Dear  Ruth: 

4 'I'm  leaving  Freeport  tonight.  I'm  going  to 
Europe — to  volunteer  my  services  as  a  doctor. 
Parker,  whom  I  knew  well  at  Hopkins,  is  right  in 
the  midst  of  it.  He  can  work  me  in.  And  the 
need  for  doctors  is  going  to  go  on  for  some  time, 
I  fancy;  it  won't  end  with  the  war. 

"I'm  happy  in  this  decision,  Euth,  and  I  know 
you'll  be  glad  for  me.  It  was  your  letter  that  got 
me — made  me  see  myself  and  hate  myself,  made 
me  know  that  I  had  to  '  come  out  of  it. '  And  then 
this  idea  came  to  me,  and  I  wish  I  could  tell  you 
how  different  everything  seemed  as  soon  as  I  saw 


FIDELITY  421 

some  reason  for  my  existence.  I'm  ashamed  of 
myself  for  not  having  seen  it  this  way  before.  As 
if  this  were  any  time  for  a  man  who's  had  my 
training  to  sit  around  moping ! 

"Life  is  bigger  than  just  ourselves.  And  isn't 
it  curious  how  seeing  that  brings  us  back  to  our 
selves  ! 

"I'll  enclose  Parker's  address.  You  can  reach 
me  in  care  of  him.  I  want  to  hear  from  you. 

"I  can  hardly  wait  to  get  there! 

"DEANE." 

She  managed  to  read  the  letter  through  with 
eyes  only  a  little  dimmed.  But  by  the  time  she 
got  to  Parker's  address  she  could  not  make  it  out. 
"I  knew  it!"  she  kept  saying  to  herself  trium 
phantly. 

Deane  had  been  too  big  not  to  save  himself. 
Absorbed  in  thoughts  of  him  she  did  not  notice 
the  country  through  which  they  were  passing. 
She  was  startled  by  a  jolt  of  the  train,  by  the  con 
ductor  saying,  "Freeport!" 

For  several  minutes  the  train  waited  there.  She 
sat  motionless  through  that  time,  Deane  Frank 
lin's  letter  clasped  tight  in  her  hand.  Freeport! 
It  claimed  her : — what  had  been,  what  was  behind 
her;  those  dead  who  lived  in  her,  her  own  past 
that  lived  in  her.  Freeport.  ...  It  laid  strong 
hold  on  her.  She  was  held  there  in  what  had 
been.  And  then  a  great  thing  happened.  The 


422  FIDELITY 

train  jolted  again — moved.  It  was  moving — mov 
ing  on.  She  was  moving — moving  on.  And  she 
knew  then  beyond  the  power  of  anyone's  disap 
proval  to  break  down  that  it  was  right  she  move 
on.  She  had  a  feeling  of  the  whole  flow  of  her 
life — and  it  was  still  moving — moving  on.  And 
because  she  felt  she  was  moving  on  that  sense  of 
failure  slipped  from  her.  In  secret  she  had  been 
fighting  that  all  along.  Now  she  knew  that  love 
had  not  failed  because  love  had  transpired  into 
life.  What  she  had  paid  the  great  price  for  was 
not  hers  to  the  end.  But  what  it  had  made  of  her 
was  hers !  Love  could  not  fail  if  it  left  one  richer 
than  it  had  found  one.  Love  had  not  failed — 
nothing  had  failed — and  life  was  wonderful,  limit 
less,  a  great  adventure  for  which  one  must  have 
great  courage,  glad  faith.  Let  come  what  would 
come ! — she  was  moving  on. 


THE   END 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO—  ^      202  Main  Library 

LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

,  ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

1 -month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calVing  &££$> 

1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  the  books  to  the  Circuiattft*  (0**?* 

Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  due  date? 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


REC.CIR.  DEC     5V 

SENT  ON  ILL 

MAR  -  5  1997 

U.  C.  BERKELEY 

L 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
FORM  NO.  DD6,  60m,  1/83  BERKELEY,  CA  94720 

©s 


YB  67479 


NTANO'S 


